Greenhouse After Midnight

The glasshouse keeps a weather of its own, warm as breath saved in cupped hands, while rain needles the roof in silver stitches and every pane remembers being sand.

Ferns uncurl like quiet questions, orchids lift their lantern mouths, a lemon tree leans into the dark as if listening for a name it once wore.

I walk the narrow aisle of damp brick, past clay pots sweating moonlight, and the air tastes green, almost electric, like a struck match that chose to bloom.

By dawn, the windows pale to milk. Leaves hold their small constellations of water, and outside, streets begin their ordinary noise, but here the roots are still singing underground.