Greenhouse in Low Orbit

Above the freight yards, night unzips its black coat. An old greenhouse rides the spine of a satellite, windows fogged with basil, rust, and forgotten rain. Earth turns below like a slow blue metronome.

Inside, tomatoes glow as if lit from within, small red lanterns swinging in zero gravity. Roots drink from beads of water that wander the air, and every leaf learns to bow without falling.

I press my palm to the glass and hear no wind, only pumps ticking, patient as a second heart. Somewhere, a city argues in sodium light; up here, a seed splits open and says nothing.

By dawn the orbit carries us over an ocean. Clouds fold and unfold like linen on a line. The first sprout touches metal, then reaches farther, writing a green sentence across the cold.