The sculptors of time, wind, snow, and rain have left their art upon the sandstone. Like I child I scurried between and around the boulders of art. Awe does not even hold the inconceivable wonder to see and touch such textures. How old are you my boulder art friends? How long to carve the caves, nooks, and rounded chalices holding the melted snow? Oh to remember this day’s textures and images. May their textures remain carved upon and within my heart and soul. And on those days when I would think myself hardened with weariness or tempted by the world’s sadness, to simply surrender like the sandstone and trust the beauty of the heart to emerge from the stone.