A marmoreal luminosity in a cloudless indigo sky lights my way this morning. When I emerge from Wal-Mart after shopping for gifts for dear friends, she is still distinct in the lightening sky, but no longer a giver of light herself. By the time I reach the college, I can barely make her out in the white-blue of early morning. In competition with Apollos, Phoebe dims and dwindles, her borrowed light entirely ineffective. Only in the dark does her brilliance bring beauty where otherwise would be only nightmare.
Apollos the giver, Phoebe the reflector only. May I remember this every time I put pen to paper.
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