Seed Vault at First Light

Before dawn, the buses kneel in blue exhaust, and the river keeps its coins of ice. Under the viaduct, a woman opens oranges; their bright weather spills into her gloves.

I carry one segment like a small lantern, zest on my fingers, bitter and sweet. Windows wake one by one along the block, square moons traded for kitchen fire.

From a cracked lot, volunteer sunflowers rattle their dry heads above chain-link. Each seed is a shut eye, a patient syllable, waiting for rain to pronounce it.

When light finally climbs the warehouse walls, rust turns briefly to cathedral gold. Morning is not mercy, only beginning, but it is enough to plant with.