Moss in the Observatory

At the hill's old observatory, glass gone milk-white, ferns climb the dome like green constellations, rain taps the rusted ladder in minor keys, and every drop remembers a different century.

Inside, the telescope sleeps under spores, its brass throat furred with patient velvet mold; through the cracked slit of roof, dawn pours in, a slow river of copper over broken charts.

I kneel where astronomers once named the dark, and find bright threads of mycelium under stone, messages traded root to root, lantern to lantern, an underground sky spelling weather and hunger.

So this is how the future enters ruins: not with fire, but with soft green insistence, a choir without mouths, tuning the air, teaching fallen buildings how to breathe again.