Greenhouse Over the City

At dawn the city roofs are shallow lakes of tin, and on the tallest one a greenhouse hums like cello wood. Tomato vines lift their wrists toward satellites, each leaf holding a bead of light like borrowed mercury.

Inside, old star charts line the glass with faded constellations, inked whales, cracked compasses, names of vanished storms. A kettle clicks; basil and rain make a green perfume. Somewhere below, traffic combs the avenues with static teeth.

I prune a branch and hear the sky change key, clouds dragging slow shadows over laundry lines and church stone. Bees map their gold equations through the warm panes, while peppers redden, small lanterns in a weathered nave.

By night, the moon leans close as a curious neighbor. I write tomorrow on seed packets, fold them into my pocket. The city keeps speaking in sirens, pipes, and distant trains, but here the earth answers softly, mouth full of stars.