The wood is full of possibility. We fall in love. I flirt. We dance. I sweat. We become something outside of ourselves. The log is no longer a log. But just when we are both on the brink of blooming...petals fall, roots shrivel, fear feeds. Murk.

Muck.

Failure.

The sculpture is LOG again with firewood its only redemption. My broken heart becomes an open heart. There...in the opening is...a glimpse.

Grace; a sunbeam in the sawdust. The knowing.

We embrace. A sculpture is born.

I am reborn (again and again).