Greenhouse at Mile Zero

At the edge of March, the river unbuttons its ice. Mud exhales a dark, mineral hymn. A bicycle bell rings once in the fog, and the morning opens like wet paper.

In the old greenhouse, panes sweat with thaw. Tomato vines climb strings of pale light. My mother taps seeds into my palm, small planets warm from her pocket.

We press them into soil the color of coffee. Rain writes quick silver strokes on the roof. Somewhere a train drags thunder through town, its iron breath shaking the glass.

By dusk, the beds are quiet as held breath. Under each row, a green rumor begins. Night folds the garden in its blue coat, and we go home carrying spring on our sleeves.