Greenhouse in Low Orbit

At shift-change, the greenhouse unhooks from night. Tomato vines drift in a slow braid of air. Each leaf carries a bead of water, round as a small moon, trembling toward the glass.

Earth is a blue rumor below the hull, a lantern swung by the black hand of orbit. I prune basil and the cut stems breathe pepper, a bright green chord inside my helmeted morning.

Bees are only code here, tiny drones, their wings a silver static around the blossoms. Still, pollen finds its patient mathematics; yellow dust settles on my gloves like sunlight.

When the timer opens the eastern shutters, day pours in without wind, pure and unbroken. I think of fields that needed weather to sing, and this silent harvest turning slowly above them.