She was carved from thunderstorms.
And he, from wind.
When their hands first touched,
the marble should have cracked.

But her stone warmed beneath his fingertips.
And his surface softened where her palm pressed.

Begin with marble, untouched.
Not white, nor black, nor gray,
but the color of your earliest memory.

Start to chisel, not with a steely heart,
but with the breath of a newborn’s cry.
Soft, but piercing, so that it may shape the stone