Night Shift at the Seed Library

At closing time we shelve the rain in envelopes, tomato, fennel, moonflower, each a small weather. Outside, buses hiss like kettles along wet avenues, and the windows hold the city's pulse like a throat.

A child left fingerprints on the jar of marigold seed, five suns smudged in dust. I press my thumb beside them, a second constellation learning to speak in dirt.

In winter, the packets rustle like moth wings, paper remembering the fields it came from. Under fluorescent hum, kernels of corn shine as if someone had cut tiny lanterns from bone.

When I lock up, the key turns through a season. In the dark, drawers breathe cedar and pepper. By spring these quiet syllables will break open, and sidewalks will bloom with names we almost forgot.