Botanical Clockwork

At dawn the old station exhales iron and moss. Ticket windows hold rain like unspent coins. Through cracked timetables, ferns lift their green wrists. A blackbird taps the loudspeaker awake.

Platforms once numbered for departures now cradle rows of tomato vines in warm fog. The rails, rust-red rivers, carry only light, and bees commute between suitcases of soil.

I kneel where engines used to thunder; mint climbs the signal post, ringing its small bells. A child plants sunflower seeds in a conductor's cap and names each one after a city she has not seen.

By evening the glass roof turns to amber water. Leaves sway like passengers standing for the stop. When night arrives, the clock keeps blooming, each minute opening, fragrant and unafraid.