In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
Two days after Spring arrived, it snowed. We awoke to a light dusting really, maybe a couple of inches. By late afternoon the same day, if just arriving on the scene, you'd never have guessed it had snowed. All evidence erased and with it my hope for Spring.
Now I sit here, one day later, basking in the warm Spring sun. My body has forgotten how intoxicating it can be to have the warmth of the suns rays penetrate my deprived translucent winter skin. I'm drunk with the sun's kiss, stoned to the soul. I could fall in to eternal bliss right here.
But there's something about the first bona fide spring day that snaps me to my senses. Dirt. I need to get my hands into the dirt. An hour later, I've dug out a bush that did not survive last summer's heat. And into the newly bare earth, I transplanted another bush that had outgrown it's previous locale. Standing back to admire my work, I dusted the dirt from my hands and smiled lovingly at the soil now caked in between my nails. Garden gloves are standard protocol but today, I claimed to not recall where I stored my gloves as winter arrived so many months back.