Craft
My axe and I hewed long together elsewhere. We split the grey flesh that was broken stone in its fall; left behind a field of statues grotesquely stillborn. No lamp came to alter those tints or to distinguish the finer moulding from the rough.
Here, in what we make the home of our renewal, we give our skill to irregularities that are thirsty and cool. We part the veins of limestone and shale, and their sinews tauten, and they stir with form.
My axe and I cut stone, and see it step out into the flux of the already living.