Greenhouse in the Observatory

At dusk the hill exhales iron and pine. Inside the old observatory, broken lenses hold shallow rain, each dish a quiet moon. Moss climbs the ladder rung by rung.

Tomato vines learn the language of constellations, curling around brass gears and cracked enamel. When wind turns the dome, leaves flash silver, as if Orion were breathing through them.

We water the beds with a kettle of warm light, and seeds answer in small green syllables. A moth circles the red switch on the wall, mistaking stored thunder for a star.

By midnight the glass is fogged with planets. Our hands smell of soil, rust, and basil. Beyond the slit of sky, satellites pass unheard; inside, one pepper flower opens like dawn.