Greenhouse in Orbit

At two a.m. the station turns its glass shoulder to Earth, and basil leaves lift like small hands in rehearsal. Blue cities wheel beneath us, spilled circuitry in rain, while roots drink from a braid of recycled thunder.

I prune tomatoes that learned the language of slow falling; their blossoms ring the air with pepper and metal. Each droplet released from the hose becomes a brief moon, wandering past my wrist before deciding to land.

Somewhere below, winter closes warehouses and harbors. Here, mint keeps making bright, unreasonable weather. The fans hum a chapel note through aluminum ribs, and pollen drifts like gold dust from a broken hourglass.

When dawn ignites the Pacific, the panes blush rose. I press one seed into foam, then another, then another, as if planting a coastline no storm can erase, as if hunger were only distance learning to kneel.