Greenhouse in Low Orbit

At dawn, the station turns its copper shoulder to Earth. Tomato vines drift from trellis to handrail, their roots drinking from clear spheres that wander like patient moons through the aisle of tools.

I prune by headlamp; each clipped tendril releases a smell of rain on warm metal. Below us, cities blink in nervous constellations, and the Pacific opens like dark silk.

A seed splits in silence, no thunder, no trumpet, only the slow grammar of water and light. Leaves uncurl as if remembering forests no one here has ever walked.

When we dock home, we'll carry crates of green fire, basil, peppers, lettuce crisp as morning glass. Some child will bite and taste a small orbit, the sky folded into a mouthful of earth.