The Dessert

The forest exhaled through a window of glass,

Where amber-veined leaves turned to liquid and mass.

A saucer of twilight, spun thick from the bark,

Was cooling its heart in the chill of the dark.

The crust was a shoreline of crusted-over dew,

Where miniature forests of cinnamon grew.

And deep in the center, a viscous, bright sun

Held dreams of the season before it was done.

A fork made of silver slipped into the gleam,

And lifted the amber to taste of a dream.

It tasted of morning when frost coats the grass,

Of copper-toned mirrors where time doesn't pass.

And taking a bite, the horizon unrolled—

A ceiling of sugar, a sidewalk of gold.

The heart grew expanded, the spirit took wing,

Convinced that November was prelude to Spring.