Greenhouse in the Observatory

At the hilltop dome, rust loosens like old bark. Night once turned here on brass teeth and glass. Now rain taps equations into the cracked lens, and moss learns the alphabet of stars.

Tomato vines climb the ladder to the telescope, curling around constellations no one charts. Bees drift through the slit in the roof, small planets with pollen-bright rings.

In the control room, seed trays warm on consoles; switches sleep under a dust of basil. When wind crosses the dish, it hums one low note, a cello string tuned to weather.

At dawn, we harvest light with both hands: fig leaves, damp metal, the scent of iron and mint. The sky is still immense, but nearer now, rooted in black soil, speaking green.