Greenhouse for Falling Stars

Atop the library, glass ribs catch midnight rain. Tomato vines climb the antenna mast like questions. Between terracotta and static, moths orbit a grow lamp, small moons learning how to burn without noise.

Down below, buses knead the avenue into copper. Up here, basil breathes pepper and wet stone. A retired astronomer waters seedlings by constellation, naming each leaf for a star no telescope keeps.

When dawn combs pink through the panes, the city’s windows answer one by one. Pollen lifts in the warm draft, bright as dusted gold, and pigeons pace the gutter like patient metronomes.

By noon, traffic forgets the night sky again. Still, in this rooftop weather, galaxies germinate quietly: roots threading cracked concrete, fruit swelling from light, a harvest of planets cupped in two human hands.