At the Library of Seeds

In the old post office, someone shelved weather. Drawers once full of stamps now breathe cumin and rye. Each envelope rustles like a small wing waking. Dust lifts in the skylight, a pale migration.

A woman in yellow gloves signs out a summer storm: one packet of basil, one handful of rain memory. The clerk stamps due dates on moons of paper. Outside, March keeps its pockets full of frost.

Children read the labels aloud as if casting spells, tomato, amaranth, blue corn, names with river in them. Their voices strike the glass and green things answer, thin as violin strings, certain as dawn.

When evening locks the door, the shelves still whisper. Night waters the dark with a patient tongue. By morning, the whole room smells like beginnings, and even the hinges open like birds.