Greenhouse at the Last Platform

At the abandoned station, rain ticks on the timetable glass. Ferns have learned the old departures by heart. A sparrow lifts from seat 12A with a thread of moss. The tracks hold two long mirrors of weather.

No trains arrive, yet steam still rises at dawn, not from engines but from wet earth breathing. Vines climb the signal post, lanterning it with leaves, and every red light ripens into a small green moon.

I walk the platform as if reading a score, puddles answering my steps in low brass. Somewhere behind the ticket window, mint is flowering, its scent turning rust to something almost sweet.

By evening the whole station hums like a hive. Wind combs the rails and they answer in silver. What was built for leaving keeps inventing arrival: seed, feather, rain, the patient grammar of roots.