[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
she is standing in front of three hundred people
Melissa Kircher 