Glasshouse Ephemeris

At the edge of town, the old observatory grows tomatoes. Its dome, once open to meteors, now sweats in morning light. Vines climb the rusted gears like patient green handwriting. Bees map constellations between blossoms and cracked brass.

I turn the wheel that used to aim at Saturn, and the ceiling petals apart with a sound like rain on foil. Warm air rises, carrying basil, wet soil, engine dust, a choir of small wings tuning the day.

On the control desk, labels fade: ascension, declination. Beside them, seed packets lean like paper saints. Every fruit is a red planet with a soft gravity, pulling my hands back to earth.

By noon the glass is bright enough to disappear. Clouds drift through us as if we are already sky. I leave with pollen on my sleeves and sunlight in my teeth, certain the universe can be tended, one vine at a time.