Greenhouse of Meteors

At the old observatory, the dome is unlatched, a cracked pearl cupping rain. Moss climbs the stair where equations used to echo, and a telescope rusts into a trellis for beans.

I bring a tin pail of seeds and listen for the soft commerce of sparrows. Their wings write quick ellipses in the dust, as if rehearsing the planets we stopped naming.

Night comes with a basket of cold light. Through the missing glass, meteors pass like thrown nails, sparking the damp air, stitching a brief seam between the garden's breath and the dark kiln of space.

By morning, sprouts stand where star charts curled. Their leaves are thin, translucent maps, and each one turns, not toward the sun, but toward the memory of a revolving sky.