Seed Vault Hymn

Under the mountain, a corridor of cold light keeps its quiet cabinets of summers, packets labeled in careful hand, tiny rumors of wheat and marigold.

Outside, the glacier speaks in blue syllables, calving its slow applause into the fjord; the wind combs the tundra flat, as if smoothing a page for a story to return.

We bring our brief heat, our breath of iron, we sign the log, we close the door again; inside, the seeds hold their small sleeps, each one a rehearsal for green.

When the thaw finally knocks with open palms, the vault will answer in roots and color, fields rising like a choir from the dark, and the world relearning its bright names.