Greenhouse for Meteors

At dawn the observatory sweats like a glass lung, ferns press their thumbs against the panes, and every telescope cradles one pale apple of light, cool as a coin lifted from river silt.

I climb the spiral stair with pockets full of seeds, the metal railing humming a low violin note, outside, satellites pass like patient herons, folding their silver knees over the city.

I plant names in cracked trays of midnight soil: for lost dogs, for borrowed voices, for storms we survived. By noon the roof is rain and static, and tiny green tongues taste the weather report.

When evening opens its dark accordion, constellations breathe through leaves and wet glass. The whole building glows, an orchard for meteors, fruiting briefly, then dropping sparks into our hands.