Hope in March
sounds like the muffled racket of chicks,
smells like rabbit food and fertilizer,
shines like a new galvanized washtub.
Ideal Feed and Seed held the rites
for a world made over
in its dusty bins, its priests taciturn, leathery,
measuring their potions with metal scoops
and a swinging balance.
They always had a twinkle and the crack of a smile,
Coca Cola in a small green glass bottle,
for the nearsighted girl visiting the baby bunnies.
What I would not give for a spin again
on the creaky seed display rack,
those many colored, rattling packets of promise,
a time tunnel back to that strange waiting place
full of sleeping beauty.
Stretching toward spring with all my might
and with the prompts at Write ALM