Tide in the Greenhouse

The roof keeps a small ocean in trays, lettuce afloat like pale moons on a pond, and the city hums below, a dark beehive spilling heat into the ribs of the glass.

Each drop is a bell with no metal, ringing against roots, against silence, making a grammar of thirst and relief as pumps inhale and give back their breath.

Wind combs the plastic, a slow hand through hair the color of morning; somewhere a gull stitches the sky, and the leaves answer in bright, wet consonants.

I stand with a cup of the leftover light, watching the water memorize my face, and think of how we all keep a little tide inside us, waiting for the exact hour.