The Dessert

The autumn pulled the orchard’s shroud too tight,

And bruised the heavy pears against the loam.

Inside the glass, a slow, celestial light

Forgot the geography of home.

A rain of amber ginger, ground to dust,

Fell upward through the ticking of the air,

While porcelain melted down to silver rust

To coat the swollen, solitary pear.

It was no kitchen; it was time undone—

A crater where the harvest learned to dream.

The crust dissolved like memories in the sun,

And swallowed up the solitary scream.

We carved the silence with a spoon of glass,

And tasted shadows baked in heavy spice.

We watched the mirrors of the season pass,

And trapped the bleeding autumn in the ice.