The Dessert

A board of checkerboard and thyme,

Where ticking clocks forget to keep their time,

A crust is spun from silver clouds and dew,

To bake a dream of sweet, celestial hue.

The silver spoons of morning stir the light,

Whisking away the shadows of the night.

With cornmeal stars and buttered amber streams,

They fold the quiet magic into dreams.

A custard born of sunlight and surprise,

Beneath the dome of pale, surreal skies,

It cools upon the breeze of what may come—

Where hope is tasted in the golden crumb.

No kings are fallen here, no pawns are crossed,

No bitter tears for idle battles lost;

Only the warmth of grace, the rich decree

That tomorrow bakes a brighter destiny.