I stand in the doorway between two rooms: one dark, one full of light. I know which one calls me, but I cannot pass through. I believe I am ready for the brightness, but is there something I must still do to prepare? 

March is that doorway, that space in between, neither barren winter nor abundant spring. It is a month pregnant with what will come. It appears cold and dead and gray, and yet all around there are signs that new life rises. Faint sound of birdsong, wispy green shoots pushing through remnants of snow, lengthening daylight and loosening coatstrings. 

And so we wait, March and I, hand in hand. While I poise for movement, ready to leap forward, March stays constant, waiting for me to return as I pass through again.

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