Night Courier for the Roots

Beneath the street’s grammar of light and horn, a courier leans into a tunnel of loam, letters stitched from breath and mica.

He knows the addresses by scent— ferns that sign their names in damp ink, the shy etiquette of seeds.

The sacks he carries are soft with weather: rain waiting in its envelope, wind folded into a thin, silver crease, a rumor of spring told in soil.

By morning, the city wakes on new routes— roots having read their mail, turning the map of darkness to green.