The Dessert

The clock unwinds its gears of rust,

And time is baked to golden dust.

Upon the shelf where shadows sigh,

Spin the rings of the Pecan Pie.

A pale moon drops its sticky shell,

And turns the orchard to a well

Of amber syrup, thick and deep,

Where silver-mantled orchards sleep.

The glass-ribbed spheres of autumn fall,

With amber mirrors on the wall.

A crisp shell cracks—a sudden glass

That lets the phantom seasons pass.

The cider runs like liquid lead,

Above the rust-oaken riverbed,

Where candied thoughts and burdens weigh

The turning arches of the day.

A forest carved of toasted nuts

Where autumn spills its hollow cuts;

The pecans drift on currents slow,

Like ancient coins in winter's snow.

And hanging from a twisted bough,

A sweetness that transcends the now—

A fruit of copper, dipped and drawn

From twilight straight into the dawn.

We slice the horizon, thin and sweet,

And taste the stillness of defeat,

Where memory coats the tongue in gold,

And stories never quite are told.

For what is time, but sugar spun?

A molten moon, a dying sun,

Enclosed within a fragile crust,

Returning softly into dust.