This morning, I woke to the sounds of a downpour running downhill and downroof, yet when I looked outside, I saw not rain but snow—not the feathery crystals that keep their shape on landing but flakes with their crystalline structures already stretched by melt, by their matter entering another state. This is weather of winter edging into spring.

In my own poetry, I use white space like this melt: to create objects that in themselves are liminal. Is it a poem? Is it broken? To prevent it from being all just rain, I rely on repeated sounds, lately repeated lines and phrases have been increasingly common in my work, though it’s often more subtle.

Does your work resemble snow mixed with rain? How so? 

Remember, CRIT will be taking liminal writing and art for its Bealtaine issue until April 1 and poems that use ` until March 20.