Greenhouse Under the Overpass

Under the overpass, someone has hung a garden in milk crates and chipped blue buckets; tomato vines climb rebar like violin strings, and rain taps a soft metronome on the concrete.

Commuter light slides over leaves at dawn, a silver bus exhaling beside marigolds; bees write their cursive between brake dust and basil, making a hymn out of the city's throat.

At noon, the river carries bottle caps and sky, while mint bruises itself fragrant in passing wind; an old mechanic waters each root with careful wrists, as if tightening bolts on the heart of August.

By evening, headlights bloom in the puddles, and the whole underpass glows like a low cathedral; we stand with dirt in our palms and listen, astonished how green can rise from noise.