Greenhouse in Low Orbit

At night the station turns like a quiet seed, windows cupping Earth in a blue inhale. Inside, basil leaves uncurl toward instrument lights, small tongues tasting metal, frost, and dawn.

We water roots with measured globes that wander, each drop a silver bell drifting to a wrist. Tomato vines braid themselves to handrails, learning gravity as rumor, not law.

Below us, continents trade weather like scarves; storms open and close their white fists. In this tin chapel, mint and marigold teach our lungs the grammar of return.

When the dark side comes, all petals listen. Circuits hum beneath the soil trays. Somewhere over the Pacific, a new bud splits, green as a promise no vacuum can erase.