The Observatory in Moss

At the hill’s crown, the old dome opens like a blind eye learning green light; ferns write slow equations on cracked brass, and rain rehearses them all afternoon.

Dusty star charts curl into little tides, a moth sips moon from a chipped lens cap, while ivy climbs the ladder rung by rung, as if gravity were only a rumor.

Night arrives without applause. The slit in the roof frames one patient planet, and the room fills with the scent of wet stone, a library no language can shelve.

I stand where astronomers once stood, hearing roots click softly in the walls; the sky keeps turning its dark music, and the earth answers in green.