The previous owner built the observatory

and, when he sold the place to you,

donated the large telescope

to a university.

I picture students of the heavens

moving it carefully,

a sort of giant kaleidoscope,

as if afraid to shake loose

any stars still lodged inside

or rearrange captured constellations

in the wrong patterns.

Now the observatory stores firewood;

some you gathered,

some the earlier tenant left behind:

each log, its own package

of heat and light,

a small sun at the center.

I see you building a fire:

sparks escape from the logs,

climb the dark tunnel of the chimney,

seeking their place on the sky.