Rooftop Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

Above the laundromat, glass ribs hold a small weather. Steam lifts from basil like breath off a horse in cold light. The city below keeps changing channels in puddles. I unlatch the door and step into chlorophyll thunder.

Tomato vines climb strings as if remembering ladders. Condensation pearls the panes; each bead carries a streetlamp. A train turns somewhere west, a long brass hinge in the dark. Mint bruises sweetly under my sleeve.

I water in slow arcs, and soil answers with iron perfume. Outside, sirens flare and fade like matches in wind. Inside, seedlings lean toward my headlamp, patient and pale. Their leaves are small hands learning the shape of morning.

By dawn the roofs wear frost like powdered sugar on slate. Buses wake, coughing blue into the avenues. I leave with dirt in my nails and warm fog in my coat. Behind me, the greenhouse hums, a lit lung above winter.