Rooftop Greenhouse at 4 A.M.

Above the laundromat vents, glass ribs sweat. Tomato vines climb the night like quiet handwriting. Moths tap their knuckles against the panes, asking what light still means before morning.

Inside, basil exhales a dark green hymn, and water beads on steel as if listening. The city below drags its chain of sirens, but here each leaf keeps its own small weather.

I tie a stem to twine; the knot remembers every wrist that learned patience by moonlight. Far cranes blink red over the river, slow metronomes for unfinished buildings.

When dawn spills milk over the eastern brick, the glass turns pale, then nearly disappears. From the street, no one sees this floating orchard, only a man descending with dirt on his sleeves.