Greenhouse for Meteors

At dawn the train yard exhales rust-colored steam. On the museum roof, volunteers unroll black soil into old satellite dishes, planting basil where static once nested.

Bees arrive like dropped commas, pausing on antennae warm from the sun. Each wingbeat edits the morning, turning traffic noise into a low cathedral hum.

By noon, tomatoes swell in aluminum troughs, red lanterns above cables and rain gutters. A child presses an ear to the hive box and says she can hear August practicing.

At night the city lights up its patient circuitry. Leaves shine with borrowed constellations. We harvest honey the color of street lamps, and taste stars that learned to grow roots.