Martius

I know there's no difference between yesterday and today, I hear myself say, but everything feels different. I watch the sun rise over March, feel the air return to my lungs. Did I make it out alive? Each step is too delicate, too precarious, like the rug can be pulled out from under us at any time, like winter is only one slip away. He writes to say maybe I'm being overly brave and all I can think is

this is the time
for it.