Candles are stars in human hands: a bit of tallow for the Madonna. Each one's a gift, a silent prayer, keeping a secret in holy honor. The saints repose who knew their Lord in mystic grace of wood and gloss. Their eyes partake of radiance. Their whisper is Sancta Simplicitas. Here God comes down through ceiling cracks as a moth heads for flame, to fly playing hide and seek with a hot blade, living in peril, not knowing why.