Tidal Greenhouse

We built the greenhouse low, where the tide can read its name, panes stitched with salt, a quiet quilt for fragile heat. Morning lifts its damp shoulder and carries in the kelp, a green hymn threaded through steel and soil.

Inside, the tomatoes swell like small planets, their skins holding the weather of another month. A moth taps the glass with the patience of a metronome, listening for the sea to answer in its own pitch.

At night, the algae in the tanks remember how to glow, a soft arithmetic of stars borrowed from the bay. We move through it, silhouettes in a liquid lantern, hands smelling of mineral and mint.

When the wind leans hard, the whole structure breathes, leaf and bolt, a slow accordion of survival. We call this practice, not prophecy, and water the roots with a cupful of tide.