Rooftop Greenhouse at 2 A.M.

Above the laundromat, glass ribs hold a pocket of weather. Tomato vines climb the rafters like green handwriting. Rain taps the panes in a patient code of tin and leaf. The city below exhales steam from a thousand grates.

I water basil by headlamp; each leaf answers with oil and light. Moths orbit the bulb, brief moons with powdered wings. On the next roof, a satellite dish drinks the storm. Somewhere a train bends iron into a long, low note.

My hands smell of soil, coin, and cut stems. I think of my mother folding dawn into seed packets, how she said every sprout is a small refusal to believe that concrete is the final language.

By morning the clouds will unzip into blue scaffolds. Commuters will pass, carrying coffee, weather, unfinished sleep. Up here, peppers redden like little lanterns in fog. I leave the door unlatched for the wind to read.