Night Shift at the Greenhouse

At midnight the greenhouse hums like a held violin. Condensation pearls the glass; the city blurs into planktoned light. Fern fronds lift their wrists to passing headlights. Soil exhales a dark, peppered warmth.

I water the basil and hear old rain learning my name. The hose arcs silver, a brief river above terracotta. Moths stitch the air between lemon leaves. Somewhere a train changes keys and keeps going.

Each pot is a small country with its own weather: thyme of dry hills, mint of cool alleys, tomatoes fat with noon. I turn the labels and remember people by the way they once touched a stem and went quiet.

Near dawn, the east pane loosens from black to ink-blue. Petals open one thin vowel at a time. When the first bus sighs at the corner, I lock the door and carry the smell of wet leaves back into traffic.