The Glass Orchard

In the retired greenhouse, panes hold their breath, light pooled like melted coins in the corners. A ladder leans into silence, its rungs cold with the memory of hands.

I walk between rows of empty trellises, listening to the drip of last year’s rain. Each drop is a seed that forgot the soil.

Somewhere under the grit, a root still counts time, fingering the earth’s old calendar. The air tastes of iron and apricot skin, and the windows hum like a far-off shore.

I imagine a harvest of clear fruit, chimed loose by wind, swelling with weather. Night comes in to inventory the light.