by Aideed Medina Argueta


The seedbank, life encapsulated, waiting dormant, life in stasis, life rich in variety, for years passing.

Life waiting.

for fire

for wind

for water, for upheaval.

Exposure, shell to sun, to trickle of water, or droplets of condensation,

to spring into the action of sprouting,

reminding us of what once stood.

A relic and brand new.

What is lived,

leaves remnant, leaves imprint, leaves future.

Nothing is forgotten, in the soil.

The seed bank remembers the direction of rhizomes, the patterns on leaves, the unfurling of stems and the blooming of flower into fruit.

Human memory forgets what the ancestors searched for, and bit into, forgets flavors and poisons, forgets colors and scents, but the earth holds all memories, and returns them to the surface when we least expect to find forget- me- nots.

Watch the hills when they burn, know life is waiting for the flame to set it free,

in the seedbank.

Photo by Marie Boucher
Person Who Submitted This Post
Marie Boucher