Greenhouse at Midnight

At midnight the greenhouse becomes an inland sea. Ferns tilt like listening fish in panes of wet glass. Condensation gathers constellations, then falls. The heater clicks once, a small red lighthouse.

Tomato vines climb their twine with patient wrists, each tendril spelling a slow cursive of hunger. Basil breathes pepper and clove into the dark, and the dirt releases the day's warm iron.

I carry a watering can like a moon made heavier, pour silver arcs at the roots of sleeping leaves. Every drop strikes soil with a soft drumbeat, as if rain were practicing the name of spring.

By dawn the windows pale from black to milk. Outside, frost still pockets the parking lot. Inside, one new shoot unhooks from its green fist. Light enters, and everything answers without a word.