Greenhouse at Sol 918

Outside, the plain is a rusted bell struck once each dawn by the thin sun. Inside, glass ribs sweat and ring with heat, and basil lifts its green tongues to the light.

I prune by the slow metronome of pumps, water climbing pipes like remembered rain. Dust writes its red cursive on every pane; my sleeve erases one small window of Earth.

Tomatoes glow like pocket lanterns at midnight, soft planets cupped in a net of vine. When the habitat sleeps, leaves keep speaking, a hush of paper, prayer, and breathing.

I carry a crate down the corridor of stars, seeds ticking in my palm like tiny clocks. Somewhere beyond this iron morning an ocean waits for these names to return.