The Dessert

The dawn leaked magenta across the white floor,

Where gravity folded and time was no more.

A basin of rubies suspended in air,

We gathered the light that was trembling there.

We whipped the bright tartness of lingering frost,

Recovering sweetness the winter had lost.

It set in a vessel of spun-sugar glass,

While clocks overhead turned to clover and grass.

A sliver of hope on a porcelain plate,

Defying the shadow, outwitting the weight.

We tasted the morning—vibrant and deep—

A surreal little promise pulled out of our sleep.

With silver knife and lifted spoon,

We taste the turning of the moon

Hope lingers on the palate bright,

A sunrise baked in winter’s night.