Catalog of Small Futures

The seed library sleeps in a drawer of cards, labels soft as moth wings under thumb and lamp, each packet a hush of weather folded tight, a promise shelved beside city sirens.

We open one and the room smells of rainless Julys, of paper and river, of a field that once leaned beyond the bus line—our palms becoming small maps with dirt in the margins.

On the windowsill, a jar of marigold dust catches light like slow traffic; we say names as if they were streets we could walk again, as if vowels were wells we could draw from.

Outside, the blocks keep their glass eyes open, but in the drawer a thousand summers shift, a patient rustle that sounds like leaves turning their pages toward the sun.