My Nose Touches Down

I am dreaming of pushing up storm windows, sliding screens down, clicking them into place. Spring air drifting in, winding through the house, under beds, into corners, sniffing out stale air. 

Under the rock by the Japanese maple, I spot the cluster of purple crocus with dusty orange antennae poking out. 

Kneeling deeper for a closer look, my jeans soak up two circles of wet mud. I drop all the way down, fingers spread over the earth, until my nose touches down.