Rooftop Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

At midnight the rooftop greenhouse unzips its breath, panes pearled with rain, basil lifting small green tongues. Elevators sigh below like distant whales, and the city keeps its pockets full of light.

I water tomatoes while sirens comb the avenues, each stem trembling with a private weather. Neon from the laundromat braids through the leaves, turning every droplet into a borrowed moon.

Bees sleep in their cedar box, gold letters folded; still, the flowers listen for tomorrow's engines. On the next tower, antennas tilt like herons, fishing radio songs from the wet dark.

By dawn, the skyline tastes faintly of mint and rust. Trains wake, windows flare, pigeons edit the sky. I close the latch and carry one warm peach downstairs, a small sun cupped in both hands for morning.