Ciclo CCXXIII

The walnut root I split this morning held a figure I had not earned — a woman turning, her hand raised against wind or light, non so dire which. The grain made her; I only followed the blade. This is the danger of osservare too long: the boundary between what is given and what is made thins until a man cannot tell whether the Maker hid His figures in the wood for us to free, or whether the longing eye imposes its own shapes on indifferent matter. Both feel like grace. Neither resolves. The fire has gone to ember. My hand steadied for the cut, then trembled after — always after.