The Greenhouse in the Empty Pool

Morning enters through cracked lane markers, light skims chipped tiles where water once listened. Tomato vines climb the ladder meant for lifeguards, and bees rehearse their brass notes in the deep end.

Children kneel where diving boards cast narrow shadows, palms black with soil, mouths bright with mint. The old drain at center keeps a cold, round silence, a moon-shaped ear pressed to the city's chest.

At noon the glass panels sweat and ring with heat, cucumbers curl like green question marks. Someone hangs wind chimes from a rusted backstroke flag, and the whole basin answers in small weather.

By dusk we carry basil home in paper sleeves, our steps smelling of rain before rain. The pool has learned a slower kind of depth: roots drinking what the sky could not keep.