Wind Orchard Under Glass

In the abandoned observatory, tomatoes climb the dome's ribs, their vines threading rusted bolts like green handwriting. At dawn the glass remembers constellations, each bead of condensation a small planet learning breath.

Old telescopes cradle trays of seedlings, lenses fogged with basil and wet soil. When wind enters through a cracked seam, it turns the hanging tags into quiet chimes of tin.

Volunteers arrive with coffee and chipped buckets, speaking softly, as if stars still slept in the rafters. They prune by the light that used to measure galaxies, and dirt darkens their palms into new maps.

By evening, crates of peppers glow near the exit, red as signal flares, red as patient hearts. We carry them down the hill toward the city, a harvest lifted from the sky's old machinery.