Greenhouse for Comets

At the edge of town, an abandoned greenhouse keeps weather like a held breath. Broken panes tilt stars into shards, and moss rehearses the color of dusk.

Tonight I carry in a bucket of river water, set it beneath the hanging hooks where tomatoes once dreamed. Frost feathers the glass from inside, as if winter were a bird learning its own name.

Above the roof, comets drag silver thread through the black cloth of April. Their light arrives late, soft as borrowed music, and every seed in my pocket turns toward it.

By morning the benches will smell of wet iron, the floor bright with snail-script and thaw. I will open the door to the ordinary street and leave, while a small weather begins without me.