The Greenhouse of Passing Meteors

Night turns its dial of ice, and the dome exhales warmth into the void; tomatoes glow like small planets with their own hush of red light. I walk among the leaves, each one a slow breath.

Outside, meteors rake the black, brief chalk strokes, and the glass shivers with their passing, a thin bell. Water in the pipes learns their rhythm and answers in a quiet, metallic rain.

By morning the vines are still, though the sky is not; the scars of light have melted into nothing. I tie the stems, thinking of how even fruit leans toward what vanishes.