Seed Library in Winter

In the seed library, winter keeps its breath inside coin envelopes lined up like sleeping birds. Each packet holds a lifted shore, a folded weather, names written in pencil, faint as spider silk.

My hands pass over beans, dill, marigold, over tomatoes scarred with the geometry of summers. I hear the rustle of futures rinsing themselves in the dry paper dark, patient as dust.

Outside, the snow is a white ledger closing its books on fences, wheelbarrows, stone. Inside, a single lamp warms the room until even silence begins to sprout.

I choose a packet the color of old honey and slip it into my coat like a small oath. By spring, the earth will remember my touch; by then, I will have become someone who waits differently.