Orbit Greenhouse

At two a.m. the greenhouse circles Earth, a ring of basil, copper pipes, and frost. Below, whole continents turn like dark shoulders under the moon's pale metronome.

I open the valve and mint-breath fog walks out to meet me in the corridor. Seeds sleep in trays like sealed constellations, each husk a small, stubborn planet.

When sunrise catches the hull, leaves begin their green arithmetic with light. Water beads tremble on the stems, tiny bells no hand has ever rung.

By morning we harvest with quiet knives and pack the day into silver crates. Somewhere a city will taste this orbit, and not know it has eaten a little dawn.