Greenhouse at Apogee

Night shifts on the station begin with unlatching light, a seam of dawn slips out of the hydroponic doors. Basil leaves hold round, weightless beads that tremble like tiny planets looking for a sky.

I prune by touch because the fans sing louder than clocks; roots drift in clear channels, white as river bones. Outside, continents turn their dark shoulders, cities blinking in constellations of human weather.

Each cutting remembers a field it has never seen, rain pressing soil into the shape of footsteps. I whisper old names of seasons into the vents, and mint answers with a cold, green breath.

When we fire thrusters, pollen lifts and slowly settles, gold dust crossing the cabin in cathedral silence. By morning, tomatoes redden against the window, small suns learning how to orbit a hand.