These candles are a hopeful reassurance:

Spades of light, glowing softly, fading into some 

planetary realm. The pale flame expands into the 

everlasting dark of the cathedral, a silent chorus 

heard amongst the empty pews. How easy it is 

to mistake something simple as light for the divine; 

smoke rising in halo-shaped orbs, faceless grey saints

emerging from this celestial garden of light. A single

angel-winged cloud drifts beneath the high arch 

of the church, between the flowered fingers of columns 

and stained glass. We pray, and we hope to be heard 

in our silence. We pray, and we hope to harvest devotion. 

The wax pools deeper into the palm of the candles. 

We are beholden to ignorance behind these kindled wicks.