Glass and Ghost-Bloom

The sun is a thin coin dropped through the cracked pane, illuminating the dust where the ferns once uncurled their green spines.

Iron ribs hold up a sky of milk and frosted breath, a cathedral for the dormant, the brittle, the gone to seed.

Under the tiered benches, a damp smell of earth lingers, shuffling its memories of water and the heavy, humid weight of June.

Silence grows here now, transparent and sharp-edged, filling the terracotta pots with the cold light of stars.