Greenhouse Above the Harbor

At midnight the greenhouse hums above the ferry slips, tomatoes breathing fog onto the glass, each leaf a small green ear tilted toward sirens, while the river lifts its iron shoulders below.

I water basil and the room answers with pepper and rain, a scent like coins warmed in a closed palm. Through the panes, cranes blink red, patient as planets, and gulls write white errors across the black water.

Somewhere a bakery starts its dawn machinery, dough turning in steel bowls like quiet weather. My hands shine with chlorophyll and city dust, a map of two worlds smudged into one.

When morning opens, the roofs unbutton their frost. Commuters pour from trains, brief sparks in wool. I lock the door and carry one cut stem home, a green metronome ticking against my coat.