Greenhouse Above the Depot

At the bus depot roof, someone built a greenhouse from old windows. Inside, basil lifts its wrists to the fogged glass. Commuters below breathe diesel and Monday, while above them tomatoes learn the color of dawn.

A woman in a painter's coat waters seedlings with coffee steam. Her kettle whistles like a thin silver bird. Rain writes Morse code on the panes, and every drop translates to leaf.

By January, frost claws the city's brick, but in that warm box mint keeps making weather. Bees, misplaced as punctuation, circle the marigolds and choose to stay.

When buses pull out before sunrise, their headlights comb the greenhouse ribs. For one bright minute the roof is an aquarium of green fire, and winter, looking up, forgets its script.