Bloom—to flourish; a glow. The word in which my inspiration buds. It begins on the surface with a haze of gray and moves towards warm, illuminating beauty. It is an action, not a request that I demand of my hands and imagery. The pieced paper forest in which all of my blooms mature is often dark and dense. The form of a bloom stands as an intricate structure activity dialoguing with the surrounding environment. The completed dwellings are birthed from piles of assembled wooden carnage. These piles are parched, ready for the fire, to be placed within their growing walls. The fire moves as the Spirit igniting the empty pits. Among the flames there stands a tree that drips with blood. Sacrifice. The woods work to seep up the flowing liquid from its cracked bark. The tall oak knows that this holy fluid is what brings life into the dying soil. It is the Son in which everlasting light radiates among the woods. We are like the dwellings, the piles. We, as those that have been cleansed by the river of crimson, are waiting to receive full revival from the red rebirth. As our branches are brought together and bound up from piles to huts we are made to sustain the flames that light up the dark ground and ignite the bloodied pebbles.