Greenhouse After the Last Harvest

At the edge of town, the glasshouse sleeps with its ribs broken. Moonlight pools in the panes that survived, pale as old milk. Fern fronds lean through the cracks, reading the weather in wind. A fox moves between tables where tomatoes once burned red.

By dawn, fog enters first, carrying a low silver hum. Droplets string themselves on rusted hooks like tiny bells. Each chime is only water letting go, then finding earth again. The soil remembers every hand that ever knelt here.

At noon, bees map new corridors between shattered frames. Their bodies flash amber over labels gone soft and nameless. Moss writes slow green sentences along the concrete lip. Nothing is wasted; even silence is composting into song.

When evening folds the roof into one dark wing, stars look down through the missing squares and do not blink. The house is no longer for harvest, only for listening. Inside it, night grows fragrant and patient as bread.