But honestly I just don't feel like saying a lot about it. Like the sense of spring that fills me today despite the snow expected this evening, the sense of something that has to do with everything I am considering remains unutterable in terms of what that actually might be.
And so it seems to go. I rest between doing and saying. In the between. A seam unstitched. A moment in March that has lasted longer than a day.
This place used to scare me. Now it seems more and more like home.