Rooftop Garden After Rain

The roof still holds a weather of its own: basins of sky caught in tomato leaves, a clothesline tuning itself in the wind, and the slow percussion of drops from fire escapes.

Mint lifts its green breath from cracked black tar, bees arrive like small, deliberate bells, and the skyline, rinsed of hurry, leans closer to listen.

Between satellite dishes and chimney stacks, marigolds burn in puddled light; someone laughs three buildings over, and the sound crosses air like thrown seed.

By dusk, the planters darken to near-blue, earth warm as a resting animal. We carry basil down the stairwell, our hands smelling of thunder and sun.