Greenhouse on the Red Plain

We carry a small weather inside our ribs, steel and plastic, a hush of valves. Outside, the plain is a rusted ocean where the wind combs nothing but stone.

The greenhouse fogs at dawn like a held breath. Condensation drips in slow Morse, each drop a syllable the pumps can read. We learn to speak in humidity.

I press my gloved palm to the glass, feeling the other side's warm confusion. A leaf uncurls with the patience of a long message crossing an impossible distance.

At night we dim the lamps to a soft eclipse. The sprouts are small, but they tilt toward the light as if it were a name being called. In their quiet, I hear a planet rehearse spring.