The Seed Vault in Summer

In the hillside the door remembers winter, its metal a quiet tongue against the sun. A thin drip of meltwater keeps time in a cup of stone.

Inside, the air is a clean held breath. Trays of seeds lie like small dark planets waiting for a sky that hasn't been named, each husk a map of rain.

Outside, the tundra is learning new words— thistle, willow, the quick green of arrival. A fox passes, carrying a feather as if it were a promise.

We stand at the threshold, warm hands on cold steel, listening to the vault's soft hum, and think of the gardens that might return with our names washed away.