Greenhouse Above the Sirens

On the hospital roof, a glasshouse keeps its own weather. Condensation pearls along the panes like unsigned vows. Below, ambulances braid red threads through the avenue. Above, the moon hangs thin as a clipped fingernail.

Inside, basil and mint lift bright throats toward heat lamps. Tomato vines climb strings as if reading a laddered score. The fan turns slowly, a patient metronome of breath. Every leaf writes water back into the air.

A nurse steps in on break, hands smelling of latex and soap. She touches rosemary, and the room changes key. For one full minute no monitor alarms reach her, only the soft percussion of drops from pipe to tray.

When she returns downstairs, dawn is just beginning to silver. Windows across the city open like cautious eyes. In each, someone stirs a cup, folds a blanket, begins again. The roof keeps growing small green answers to the night.