The Dessert

Upon a plate of woven glass,

Where autumn shadows turn and pass,

A harvest moon was sliced and laid—

A velvet ghost of spice and shade.

The cream cheese spun from clouds of June,

Stirred gently with a golden spoon,

While amber starlight curled inside

To be the blushing pumpkin’s bride.

A ginger crust, like crumbled stars,

Had traveled far from Jupiter’s bars,

And held the cushion soft and deep,

Where dreams of harvest softly sleep.

A cloud of whipped cream, spun so high,

Dissolved into the parlor sky.

With every fork-full, sweet and bright,

We swallowed whole the golden light.