Glasshouse at Low Tide

At dawn the conservatory floods with seawater, and the fern leaves ring like small green bells. Light arrives in scales, silver and deliberate, resting on the wrists of sleeping statues.

A tram glides past outside, carrying umbrellas, each one a dark moon folded under an arm. The passengers wear rain like a second language, soft consonants of wool, steam, and breath.

In the central aisle, oranges float from their bowls, planets briefly forgiven by gravity. A child presses a palm to the glass, and the whole room answers in ripples.

By noon the tide withdraws without apology. Salt traces remain on every railing and pane, a score written for hands that will return, for voices that know how to water the air.