Greenhouse for Lost Signals

At the edge of town, a greenhouse keeps the night warm, its panes beaded with fog like held breath, inside, antennas rust into trellises and small leaves listen in the dark.

Satellites pass overhead like slow fish, their light skimming the glass, and every empty chair remembers a voice.

I walk the aisles, touching each wire-stem, reading the soft static like braille, a weather of distant kitchens and train stations folded into the soil.

Morning arrives without a trumpet, only the drip of thaw and a sudden bird, and the signals curl back into themselves, seeds of silence.