Moths in the Glasshouse

The glasshouse keeps its warmth like a thought held through winter. Moths arrive at the panes and hover in the amber hush, their pale wings touching nothing but the memory of light. Inside, the basil leans into its own green silence. The lemon tree listens with a patient, glossy leaf. I stand where the door is cracked just enough for night to breathe. The dark does not take the room; it only learns its outline, soft as dust on sleeping glass.