Greenhouse in the Old Observatory

At dusk the hill unlocks its iron dome, glass ribs sweating with the breath of basil. Where telescopes once hunted winter constellations, vines climb the brass gears like patient handwriting.

Tomatoes burn small planets above the loam, their skins holding sunset long after sky goes slate. A moth taps Morse against the cracked eyepiece, and pollen drifts where chalk equations faded.

Children water seedlings with comet names, Orion, Lyra, one called Quiet Engine. The floor remembers astronomers pacing in wool coats; now rain barrels answer with low, wooden music.

When night arrives, the roof turns mirror-black. Leaves lift, listening through their green throats. No stars are closer than before, yet everything glows: the cosmos learning, at last, how to root.