Platform Greenhouse

At dawn the station breathes iron and wet stone. Between the rails, a seam of moss glows like lit velvet. Commuters pass with rain in their cuffs, and the loudspeaker pours tin birds through the air.

A woman unwraps oranges; their scent climbs the stairs, bright as coins dropped in a fountain of smoke. Pigeons tilt their necks, priests of small hunger, blessing crumbs beside yesterday's ticket stubs.

When the train arrives, wind lifts newspapers and all those headlines flutter into leaves. For one clean second the tunnel is a forest, dark trunks of pillars, sap of electricity singing.

Then doors close and the city resumes its stern grammar. Still, under concrete, roots keep their quiet rehearsal. By noon a single fern will uncurl near track three, writing green cursive no schedule can erase.