The Greenhouse on the Red Plain

At dawn the dome exhales a thin white cloud, frost lifting from the ribs of plastic light. Outside, the planet keeps its rusted silence; inside, basil trembles like a small choir.

I water roots with melted breath and patience, watch droplets bead on leaves like glassy moons. The pumps keep time, a low mechanical heartbeat, while dust storms comb the sky with copper teeth.

Each seed remembers oceans it has never seen, rain gutters, birds, the gossip of wet streets. Here, every stem leans hard toward one warm filament, a sun we built and hung by hand.

At night I press my palm against the window. My print blooms briefly, then is gone. Beyond it, miles of iron sleep unbroken; behind me, tomatoes ripen in the dark.