Greenhouse in the Planetarium

The old planetarium keeps its cracked dome like a bowl of winter light. Inside, warm fog lifts from trays of basil, and vines rehearse their slow green arithmetic.

Where Saturn once turned on a lecturer's wand, tomatoes gather their red lanterns. The air tastes of wet pennies, leaf-breath, and dirt waking softly in its black drawers.

At noon the glass ribs tick with thaw. A fig tree leans into a painted galaxy, its leaves broad as listening hands, catching dust that used to pretend to be stars.

By evening, moths drift through the projector beam. Everything that failed here has changed its weather: roots thread the fallen constellations, and the dark, at last, grows something.