The Dessert

A pale, sun-warmed island disc resting upon the counter,

crowned with a meadow of whipped cream peaks

that catch the afternoon light like sea-spray.

Beneath the fluffy drifts lies the treasure:

a custard rich as morning sunlight,

thick and sweet with the milk of distant palms,

whispering secrets of white sand and salt breeze.

And the crust—oh, the flaky, butter-crisp armor—

shattering softly under the silver spoon,

a joyful little avalanche of crunch

meeting the velvet tide below.

One bite and the kitchen vanishes;

we are swaying in hammocks of pure delight,

drifting on a sea of vanilla and tropics,

licking the sweetness from our lips,

laughing at the simple, perfect magic

of pie.