Greenhouse Night Shift

At 2 a.m. the greenhouse breathes on its own, glass ribs steaming under a blue emergency moon. Outside, the parking lot is a sheet of salt and wind, inside, basil leaves lift like small green ears.

I walk between tomato vines strung with twine and light, each bulb a patient planet warming a private weather. Condensation gathers, then slides down panes as if the building is remembering rain.

From the heater vents comes a low cello hum, and moths orbit the lamps with paper-thin devotion. I clip dead stems, set them in my palm, dry boats from summers no one could keep.

By dawn, frost has written white ferns on every car. I clock out smelling of soil, metal, mint. Behind me, the greenhouse glows against the dark, a lantern teaching winter how to germinate.