Night Greenhouse at the Observatory

By dusk the old observatory sweats in glass, ferns lifting their palms where constellations once were charted, the dome unbolted to a bowl of rain-light, and every drip counting a softer astronomy.

Moss climbs the brass of the broken telescope, turning cold equations into a slow green tongue; snails cross the eyepiece like tiny caravans, carrying silver weather on their backs.

I stand where night crews once whispered numbers, breathing loam, wet iron, crushed basil, while Jupiter rises above the ridge like a fruit no hand can harvest.

In this borrowed weather, even silence germinates: seeds split, hinges sigh, water remembers gravity. The sky looks down through missing panes, and the room keeps growing toward it.