Seed Vault Hymn

In the mountain, a door of brushed steel opens like a throat to cold. We carry paper sacks of future, each grain a quiet vowel.

The lamps hum soft as insects, shelving after shelving of sleep. I sign my name in a ledger of frost, the ink beads and tightens.

Outside, the valley is a wind-smoothed page, the river writing and erasing itself. Inside, we stack summers in the dark, apples that will only exist again.

When storms forget their manners, when fields go bare as palms, someone will come with warm breath and wake the rooms of seed.