The Vault Wakes

In the valley of permafrost A door of steel sweats for the first time, Light tilts its key into the lock, The mountain exhales in slow grains.

Inside, paper packets lie like folded prayers, Names of wheat and barley, of a lost apple, Each a small map of hunger survived, Each a sleep without dreams.

Outside, meltwater braids the gravel, A fox prints cursive in the mud, The wind unspools a cable of birds, The world rehearses its green.

We carry the packets into our palms, Their silence warmer than a match, And in the thawing earth we plant The future as a patient question.