Greenhouse Above the Blue

At six hundred kilometers, tomatoes bloom in Velcro beds. Earth turns below them like a slow blue bell. A wrench drifts past, silver fish in silent tide. The windows keep a thin astonished frost.

Each leaf learns weightlessness by prayer and reach, its stems writing cursive into cabin light. Water beads, bright as unspent vowels, and every breath becomes a borrowed weather.

At shift change, someone hums through filtered air. The tune folds into fans, into instrument glow, into the dark where continents ignite like campfires seen from a mountain road.

When morning rolls up over the Pacific rim, the greenhouse answers first, all green applause. Seeds crack open to a sun with no horizon, and call this floating room a kind of soil.