Greenhouse in Low Orbit

The station turns, a slow silver lung, and every window grows a different dawn. Basil roots braid in clear water, leaf-shadow trembling over stitched aluminum.

I mist the trays and hear Earth below, a blue bell struck without sound. Clouds unspool like torn silk over oceans, while one tomato flower opens to nobody.

At night, the fans keep their small weather, a patient rain of recycled breath. Seeds remember dark better than I do; they rise anyway, green grammar in the air.

When harvest comes, I cut light from the vine. Juice beads on my thumb like a tiny planet. I taste iron, sugar, distance, and the room fills with summer that has no country.