Waxen pillars tipped with fire
in a ring of evergreen;
like our souls, the flames lift higher
with our prayers to a God unseen.
And at the core, waiting…
the bone white sepulcher of Christ –
the eucharistic cradle of divine incarnation,
which yields the Everlasting Light.
I don't call myself a poet — but the beating of my heart is poetry. I don't call myself a theologian — but the light of my mind seeks the Divine. Who I am is a Child of God, a Divine Creation, a person devoted to being fully human, fully alive.