Quincy was a True Poet
Every Morning
Every morning
the world
is created
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped ashes
of the night
turn into leaves again
(The first few lines from “Morning Poem” by Mary Oliver)
And we have a choice to be recreated every single morning.
Lightshine
The light shines on other things. It does not shine on itself.
"The lives of saints never point to themselves, but always and forever beyond themselves to the One who chose them, uses them and loves them." Richard Rohr