The Dessert

Upon a board of floured pine,

Where morning sun and shadows twine,

A golden circle starts to take

The gentle shape of sweet remake.

With tender hands and hopeful grace,

We press the pastry into place,

A quiet vessel, pale and bare,

Yet holding dreams within its care.

Now comes the cloud of almond cream,

A sunlit, nutty, velvet dream

Of butter spun with powdered sweet,

Where patience and devotion meet.

It settles deep, a snowy bed,

Where promises of joy are spread,

A rich perfume of almond breeze

That whispers through the orchard trees.

Then crown the heart with autumn’s prize:

Sliced apples, fans of amber dyes,

Arranged in rings like rising suns,

Where warmth begins and winter runs.

Each slice is laid with careful art,

A testament of open heart,

From gnarly branches, wind-swept, cold,

To sweet perfection, white and gold.

Into the oven’s glowing heat,

To make the hopeful vision sweet.

The kitchen fills with fragrant praise,

A glowing warmth for darker days.

And when it rises, browned and bright,

Dusted with sugar’s morning light,

We taste the future in the tart:

A golden promise to the heart.