Liminal

At the field's threshold, frost still grips the dark, but green insists— pushing through the crust of what was, the year folded under like old snow.

A cardinal shatters the gray, blood-bright, carrying two seasons balanced on its wings. It doesn't know it holds both the grief and the hunger.

The creek speaks now, finally loosened, telling the whitened banks secrets in the language of thaw—they listen, saying nothing back, just listening.

Between winters we stand, between springs, in the amber of half-light. Neither willing to let go. Both reaching forward.