[liminal]

where life-blood has dripped out

and not yet drawn back in

the winter, where things die

but not all the way

though they crack and bleed

and look to all the world a blank canvas of white

something grows

deep and hidden

germinating while the cold wind blows that cuts right to the bone

when hope seems lost

and bright color just a memory

a tiny emerald bud bursts through the loaming

it has been there

this whole time

on the cusp of being

it’s simply that

change is a process

death and rebirth

and the long slogging in-between

“Liminal” -Melissa Kircher