Greenhouse in Low Orbit

The station turns like a key in the lock of night. Inside, basil leaves lean toward a rented sun. Their shadows drift across aluminum ribs, small forests learning the grammar of weightlessness.

Water lifts from a nozzle as a clear glass animal, breaks into pearls that refuse to fall. Roots hold the dark in braided fists, while Earth rolls blue and speechless through the window.

I prune by listening: snip, hum, heartbeat, fan. Each clipped stem releases rain and pepper. Somewhere below, cities switch on their necklaces; up here, one mint flower opens without an audience.

By dawn pass, the trays are constellations of green fire. I write your name on a label and tuck it in soil. When this orbit loosens and carries us home, the plants will have taught me how to stay.