Greenhouse in Low Orbit

In the station's sleeping ring, tomatoes float like red lanterns cut loose from gravity. A fan hums the oldest lullaby of Earth, and leaves turn slowly to the window's night.

Below, continents pass like animals in dream, their rivers silver muscles under cloud. I prune one stubborn vine with careful fingers; a drop of water beads, then becomes a moon.

Roots listen through nutrient mist and metal, learning seasons from the pulse of pumps. When alarms blink amber, I whisper weather: monsoon, thaw, first rain on a train platform.

At shift's end I harvest basil for no one, let its green fire stain the cabin air. Tomorrow we will dock, unload, depart— but tonight this garden keeps the world in orbit.