Greenhouse in the Observatory

At the hilltop dome, glass once mapped Saturn, now tomatoes climb the brass ribs of the sky. Rain taps Morse code on a lens gone milky, and bees orbit where astronomers whispered numbers.

Moss drinks from cracked star charts on the floor, constellations blur into leaf-shadow and steam. A kettle hisses beside a rusted equatorial mount; mint and iron braid their small, bright weather.

At dusk, the panes hold two kinds of light: planet-rise remembered, lantern-glow alive. Hands that once adjusted mirrors now pinch basil, reading the night by scent before it opens.

When wind turns the dome, slowly, like a thought, the whole room creaks into another season. Above the beds, one clear aperture remains, and through it Venus hangs like a seed.