Rooftop Conservatory at 3 A.M.

On the hospital roof, glass holds a pocket of June. Snow feathers the skylight; inside, basil breathes pepper and rain. Condensation beads like a second constellation. Someone has left a yellow glove beside the mint.

Below, ambulances open and close their red mouths. Here, tomatoes glow like small lanterns in wire cages. I hear the heater click, then hush, then click again, a metronome for roots learning patience in winter soil.

I water each tray until the dark earth shines. Steam lifts, a thin choir, and fogs my name from the pane. The city becomes watercolor—bridges, cranes, and sleepless windows— all of it wavering, all of it still held.

By dawn, the east edge of glass turns silver. Leaves tilt toward it before I do. When I lock the door, my coat smells of rosemary and iron, and the day begins with green under my fingernails.