Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

The storm leaves its silver fingerprints on the glass. Inside, tomatoes breathe like small red lanterns. A hose coils in the aisle, a sleeping river. My boots carry the smell of wet iron and mint.

Condensation gathers, then falls with patient applause. Each drop strikes a leaf and changes key. Moths circle the grow light, pale paper prayers. Somewhere a fan turns, soft as a held secret.

I tie twine to a stem and the stem leans into morning. So much of care is this: a thumb, a knot, a wait. Outside, the city rinses neon from its gutters. Inside, basil darkens the air with green fire.

When dawn arrives, it does not enter all at once. It threads itself through panes, thread by thread. The plants stand taller for no reason I can prove. I write their names in fog, and watch them clear.