The Seed Librarian at Closing

At dusk the library exhales a paper-cool breath. I shelve envelopes thin as moth wings, beans mottled like river stones, corn kernels holding miniature suns.

A woman returns moonflower seeds in a tea tin; when it opens, the room smells of rain on iron. Outside, buses kneel and sigh, their doors folding like tired hands.

I stamp due dates no one can keep, because spring is a language with no calendar. In each packet, a field waits folded, quiet as a hymn beneath the tongue.

When I lock up, keys ring once, then settle. Night climbs the windows on blue-glass ladders. Tomorrow strangers will borrow weather from us, and carry whole summers home in their pockets.