Glasshouse Weather

At noon the conservatory breathed, a green lung ribbed with iron and light. Rain stitched silver threads along the panes, and every leaf held a small, listening bell.

A fern uncurled like a violin note, slow as a hand remembering a name. Water gathered in the throat of an orchid, then fell, clear and singular, into moss.

Between the palms, heat moved like silk. The air tasted of soil and bright metal. My reflection crossed the glass in pieces, a weather map broken by vines.

When the storm thinned, the roof became sky. Drops kept time on the emptied benches. I left with my sleeves smelling of basil, carrying a hush that grew roots by evening.