The Dessert

Golden circles of buttery warmth,

Pressed gently into the tin,

Waiting for the afternoon sun

To spill across the kitchen floor.

Each one a delicate sunburst,

A crumbly promise of sweet delight,

Melting slow on the tip of the tongue

Like a quiet, unexpected giggle.

And then—the grand ambition,

The gathering of the golden shards,

Crushed down into a fragrant bed

To cradle the velvet cream.

A pie born of pure indulgence,

Where buttery crumbles meet the cloud,

A crown of spun sugar and laughter,

Baking the heavy gray out of the day.

Cut a slice, wide and reckless,

Let the edges tumble in sweet disarray.

No forks required when the heart is light—

Just a plate, a sunny afternoon,

And the golden, buttery pie of joy.