Greenhouse in Orbit

At dawn the abandoned station turns slowly, a glass seed over the Pacific's breath. Inside, lettuce lifts its pale hands to nothing but the patient hum of recycled light.

Roots drink from beads that drift like silver fish; a wrench, forgotten years ago, keeps circling the same red basil pot, a quiet moon teaching metal how to wait.

On Earth, cities burn their morning toast, children shoulder backpacks, buses kneel. Up here, one tomato ripens in silence, holding an entire summer behind its skin.

When the next crew docks, they will cut it open. Juice will float between their laughter and visors, small suns breaking loose in the cabin air, and the old station will smell briefly of rain.