Greenhouse in the Observatory

At dusk we unlocked the hilltop dome, where rust had memorized every hinge. The old telescope slept like a whale bone, salted with constellations of dust.

Now basil climbs the ladder to Orion, tomato vines knot around cold brass gears. When rain taps the slit of the roof, light pours in, green and planetary.

Bees orbit the mint in small gold ellipses, their hum tuning the cracked control panel. I water the beds and hear, beneath roots, the patient click of stars changing shifts.

By midnight the glass is breathing again. Leaves press their palms against the dark. Above us, the sky writes in fire; below, seeds answer in quiet thunder.