Greenhouse at the Observatory

On the hill, the old observatory exhales dust and fern. Glass ribs hold the weather like a held breath. Moss climbs the brass telescope, patient as handwriting. At dusk, rain taps scales on the copper dome.

We turn the crank and the roof opens, slow as a tidegate, revealing a sky rinsed in milk-blue after storm. Inside, tomatoes hang like lanterns in a cathedral nave; their green scent braids with ozone and rust.

Planets no longer pass through this lens, yet seeds do: small dark moons dropped into loam. Each sprout lifts a thin neck toward what it cannot name, listening for light the way violins listen for pitch.

By midnight the rows are silvered with breath. Constellations drift across panes beaded with heat. We harvest quietly, as if taking notes from the dark, and carry home baskets that glow from within.