Stroud writing as if he was Giotto Di Bondone - ca.1266-1337

Yes, Brother Francis, I wanted to paint Paradise, a great city, a city
structured like music. But look at this rosemary on my table. The
bowl of grapes. A cup of water. The iridescent feather of the quill I
am using. The stone wall outside my door, wild basil growing in the
cracks. The smell of geraniums. The lizard sunning itself on a stone,
bobbing up and down with happiness. The blue door to Gianna’s
house across the yard. Her rooster with his bloodred comb. The
bells of Santa Croce and the bells of San Marco and the bells of Santa
Maria Novella. The sparrows Maso scatter when he walks from the 
stable. A puddle brimming with light. The lake above Fiesole, full of
sun all day, filled with starfall at night.