The Greenhouse Inside the Observatory

At the hill’s broken observatory, tomatoes climb the rusted dome. Morning pours through cracked glass in thin brass ribbons. Bees orbit the old telescope as if it still gives orders. Dust and pollen trade masks in the same light.

Someone planted basil in the drawer of star charts. Its scent lifts when the wind turns a page by itself. Constellations blur under fingerprints of soil, Orion wearing a thumbprint the size of a seed.

At noon, heat rings the metal like a struck bell. Vines braid the gears that once hunted Saturn. A child cups rainwater from the lens housing, drinks sky filtered through iron and leaf.

By dusk the dome opens with a tired mechanical sigh. Planets rise; peppers glow like small lanterns below. The night keeps both calendars without complaint: ripening and distance, harvest and fire.