Greenhouse at Two A.M.

At two a.m. the greenhouse hums like a held violin. Frost whitens the glass, but inside the leaves are warm tongues. Misters breathe a thin weather over citrus and fern. My boots track constellations of soil across the aisle.

Tomato vines climb the trellis as if rehearsing ladders to dawn. A moth taps Morse against the sodium lamp, and every tap becomes a small bronze bell ringing in the ribs of the quiet.

I prune dead petals from an orchid's wrist, set them in my palm like folded paper boats. The heater coughs; somewhere a seed coat cracks with the hush of a match just struck.

By first light the panes turn from iron to milk. Outside, winter keeps its knives in the wind. Inside, basil and rain write their green grammar, and my breath learns to speak in leaves.