Greenhouse for Thunder

On the grocery roof, a greenhouse hums above traffic, tomato vines lift their wrists to the storm light, below, buses kneel and sigh at the curb, and rain writes silver Braille on their windows.

Inside, heat beads on the glass like held breath, basil releases dark green thunder when touched, a child counts lightning between elevator chimes, learning distance by sound instead of miles.

Night comes smelling of wet concrete and soil, city towers bloom in puddles upside down, we harvest peppers bright as warning flares, carry them home like coals in paper bags.

At dinner, the storm keeps speaking through gutters, seeds click softly against the cutting board, and every mouthful tastes of sky translated into something warm enough to share.