Greenhouse After the Power Cut

At dusk the glasshouse keeps the afternoon like a match held under water; leaves lift their dark hands, glossy as fish scales, and the tomatoes continue dreaming of red.

No hum from the vents, only the wet inventory of breath: basil, loam, the peppermint sting. A moth circles the broken clock of a fan as if the hour were a flower opening its throat.

Outside, the road unspools its headlights. Inside, each stem leans toward the moon that pools on the floor in a thin silver basin, and the orchids practice a language of bruises.

When the electricity returns, it enters softly, a second dawn threading itself through wire. Nothing is lost, only clarified: every vein, every drip, every patient green mouth.