Observatory in Spring

At the hilltop observatory, the dome no longer turns. Tomatoes climb the rusted ladder where constellations were charted. Glass panes sweat with dawn; basil breathes pepper and rain. Bees map their gold equations across abandoned star tables.

A child presses her ear to the old brass telescope, hearing wind move through it like a deep-sea shell. Inside the tube, dust and pollen trade small bright planets, and a spider hoists a silver bridge between galaxies.

By noon, the caretakers water the sky from metal cans. Vines shoulder through cracked tiles, patient as clocks. Each leaf holds a sun the size of a thumbnail, each seed a dark vowel waiting to be spoken.

At night, no one asks what was lost to weather. We taste mint in the dark and read the moon on wet stone. The dome stays open, a listening mouth above the hill, while roots write their slow scripture under our feet.