Greenhouse in the Old Observatory

The dome on the hill no longer tracks planets; it gathers rain in a rusted lip, and children climb the spiral stairs carrying seed packets like folded maps.

Where telescopes slept, tomato vines take aim, their tendrils reading light by touch. Dust of constellations mingles with damp soil; a bee ricochets through noon like struck brass.

At dusk the glass remembers every weather. Fog writes its breath across the panes, and basil lifts a sharp, green chord from buckets that once held star charts.

We kneel where equations used to bloom in chalk, pressing dark earth under our nails. Night opens above us, patient and immense; below it, peppers glow like small red moons.