Greenhouse in the Abandoned Observatory

At dawn the dome unlatches like a slow eyelid, rust and dew sharing one metallic breath. Fern fronds climb the old brass telescope, reading the sky through fingerprints of rain.

Glass panes, cracked as old maps, still gather constellations in shallow pools. A moth circles the dead control panel, its wings tapping Morse into the dust.

I kneel where planets were once measured, and press a seed into the black equation of soil. Somewhere beneath, roots negotiate with silence, turning iron filings into green vowels.

By noon the room is all soft machinery: leaf-shadow, water clock, a chorus of stems. Even the broken lens remembers its purpose, bending light until it learns to grow.