Greenhouse on the Far Side

I keep the night shift where no birds arrive, only the hiss of valves and patient glass; outside, the moon is powdered bone, inside, basil lifts its bright small hands.

Water beads along the rails like a string of vowels, each droplet sounding a soft metallic note. Tomato vines climb their silver ladders, writing green cursive across the dark.

At three, the lamps dim to an amber hush; my shadow lengthens and splits among leaves. Mint opens a cool fist of fragrance, and time tastes briefly of rain on stone.

By dawn, frost flowers the outer panes, a white language no root can read. Still, seedlings lean toward any offered warmth, as if hope were a light you could mist and prune.