These axe heads once split pine and birch, carving trails through snow and silence. They’ve rested here for decades—stacked like bones beneath the floorboards of the lodge, their edges dulled but not forgotten. Tools once meant for labor, now relics of a wilder rhythm. And then came the flowers—gathered from the forest just beyond the porch, where lupine bloom. I crowned the rust and iron with color. Maybe because even the sharpest things deserve beauty.