Rooftop Greenhouse During the Blackout

When the city loses its alphabet of windows, the rooftop greenhouse keeps speaking in leaf-light. Condensation beads along the glass like held breath, and basil lifts its dark hands to the moon.

Inside, tomatoes float as red lanterns, their skins remembering noon the grid forgot. A moth drums softly against the pane, tiny percussion for stems that keep climbing.

I water by phone flashlight, a narrow river sliding through trays of mint and pepper roots. Below us, sirens comb the avenues for sparks; up here, soil answers only with rain-smell.

By dawn the power returns with a mechanical sigh, signs blink awake, elevators swallow their silence. But one vine has twined around the broken hour, green as a promise that does not need a switch.