Botanical Station

At dawn the subway exhales a green breath, moss lit like old velvet along the rail ties, pigeons lift in a slow accordion from steel beams sweating last night's rain.

A florist opens crates beside turnstiles, tulips bright as match heads in commuter hands; coffee steam braids with damp earth, and the platform becomes a temporary meadow.

Screens flicker departures like weather, yet roots keep drafting their quiet map through cracks no schedule can seal, teaching concrete to remember riverbeds.

By noon the city is all brass and hurry, but under our shoes, patient chlorophyll hums. We ride above it, brief and electric, while the underground keeps composing spring.