The Observatory Turns to Clover

The dome is a half-open eyelid where rain has stored its patient grammar; fern fingers turn the rusted wheel, and the sky leans in to listen.

We find the chalk constellations still trembling on the floor, a map of names that never landed and the slow breath of the valley below.

Bees build their gold between lenses, hum thick as velvet against the glass; evening spills a copper river through the slit where the telescope slept.

I take a seed from the control panel and press it into the old star chart, as if light could be revised by the green, by the forgetting.