At the Observatory Garden

Rust has learned the grammar of rain on the old dome, and through its split seam, moonlight pours like milk. Tomatoes climb where star charts once hung, leaf-shadow constellations breathing on cracked glass.

A child kneels in the aisle of abandoned equations, palming dark soil the way monks hold silence. Basil and mint release their small green weather, and every bruise of scent rewrites the air.

Some nights the city hums below like a cello string, trains drawing sparks in the river’s black margin. We water the beds with dented metal cans, listening for planets in the ringing handles.

By dawn, dew pearls the scaffolds and seed trays, each drop a lens for one unclaimed morning. We leave with dirt under our nails, bright as ink, while behind us the dome keeps opening, opening.