After putting away the 75 seeds, he felt harbored yet chilled. In the after-part, the Collection was secure. It was made tight and finely made. Nested and nestled in their perma-frostings. He knew, with his turn of the key, each seed would heed the Call of the Wild. There would be no more controlling; no more sun to answer. Each was a fugitive for their own justice, now. They sat in the thick and plotted. Others, turned their backs.
A light went on. First, the Marigolds and the Dandelions entered the Boiler Room. Then, the Cloves, followed by the Thymes and Parsleys. The Wheats and the Barleys joined limbs and cuddled next to the Yams and the Rutabagas. As they stepped through the crowd, they could see, in the distance, the local soils alongside the African Oaks. A catcall was heard, in the direction of the Squash. (She snickered and took a seat in the front). Two by two, they entered. Two by two, they took off their histories of space and time. They were tired. All of that depositing and classifying; sifting and labeling. They longed for the temperate but got the raw. Then, a scuffle was heard. Old Bran organized a meeting at the third black box to the left with Hickory, Marjoram, and Maize.
Let’s keep the humans out of it, said Squash, A flood is coming.
And the news spread to Mustard, then to Clover, then to Chick and Lima who went round back and whispered it to Soy, who then whispered it to Wildflower and with a snap of her hand, turned out the light. They were happy in their vaults. Happily mingling in the cold. They held banquets; drank vodka. (Sometimes, they did the polka.) They were ready to marry. Ready to go forth and prosper for when the world fell to her knees, they’d be ready to harvest a new one.
© 2012 Umansky
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blog of poet, leah umansky 
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