Greenhouse in the Old Observatory

At dusk the hill remembers instruments of light. Glass ribs of the dome hold rain like quiet planets. Tomato vines climb through rusted rings where stars were measured. Every leaf turns its face to a window no one closes.

Once men mapped winter by a trembling pin of fire. Now basil breathes in clay bowls, mint spills over stone. The cracked meridian line is a warm strip for cats. Their paws erase the empire of coordinates.

When wind arrives, the shutters answer in low brass notes. Sunflower heads nod like patient astronomers. Seeds click in their dark mouths, counting August. Pollen drifts up, a golden weather of its own.

Night drops its ink; the dome gathers a small weather. Lanterns bloom between fig leaves and hanging twine. Above, one true star appears in a missing pane. Below, roots keep writing equations in wet black soil.