At the Old Observatory, Spring

At dusk the hill unlatches its tin gate, and we climb through fennel, through rusted warning signs. The dome, once a white eyelid, stands ajar, holding the last blue light like water in a bowl.

Inside, ivy braids the brass of dead instruments; a spider has sewn Orion to a broken lens. When wind turns the slit in the roof, the room fills with migrating cloud and radio hush.

We speak softly, as if stars were sleeping downstairs. Dust lifts from the floor in slow, bright schools, and every footstep wakes an old equation, chalked into silence, still warm with human hands.

By night, moss claims the stair in patient commas. We leave one lantern burning near the chart table, a small sun for moths, for memory, for return, while above us the sky relearns our names.