Unnamed Air

Up in the attic, the dust

was thick, a silent snow

on everything. I lifted

the cedar chest lid,

the scent of it, sharp, familiar,

hit first. But then,

beneath that,

something else.

It wasn't dust. Not mildew.

Not old paper or mothballs.

It was earthy, yes,

like the smell of a newly dug hole

in spring mud,

but sweeter.

Like a lunchbox

forgotten in a closet,

after the apple core has gone soft.

A clean, green dampness,

a hint of iron,

a prickle at the back of my nose

that wasn't allergy,

but memory.

I breathed it deep,

tried to hold it,

name it.

It shifted, dissolved.

Just childhood,

a specific afternoon,

a feeling,

without a word.