Greenhouse for Meteors

At dawn the observatory opens its glass ribs. Inside, gardeners hang constellations on wire hooks. Tomato vines climb toward Orion's cold shoulder, and bees move through light like small bronze bells.

We water the beds with thaw from old comets, silver runoff pooling in the furrows of basil. Every leaf holds a weather report in miniature: rain of photons, wind from a turning planet.

By noon, peaches ripen with a faint electric hum. Children press their ears to the fruit and hear summer tuning itself, string by green string, until the whole room smells of sun-warmed copper.

At night we harvest by red headlamps and whisper. Crates fill with moons disguised as ordinary produce. When the trucks leave, the empty greenhouse keeps glowing, as if the sky had lent us its unfinished music.