Greenhouse Constellations

The old observatory has learned the weight of tomatoes, glass ribs sweating in the dawn, each pane a thin bell. Vines climb the telescope pier, patient as handwriting, and bees orbit where planets used to be measured.

At noon, children kneel in constellations of basil, their palms stained green, their questions full of rain. A rusted dome turns one careful inch in the wind, opening like an eyelid that remembers light.

By evening, marigolds ignite along the catwalk, small suns tethered to nails and twine. The sky leans close, smelling of iron and mint, while crickets tune the dark with copper bows.

Night arrives soft as compost, warm and unfinished. Above us, Orion hangs; below, pumpkins glow in silence. We water the rows until stars appear in the soil, and every drop says: keep this world turning.