The Dessert

The autumn sky was spun of molten gold,

Where copper clouds in velvet oceans rolled.

A sugar-wind began to softly blow,

And melted time to make the forest glow.

Upon the hills, where painted planets fell,

The frost awoke a dormant, fiery spell.

A kitchen hung suspended in the breeze,

Carved from the hollows of celestial trees,

Where nutmeg comets danced with ginger rain,

And cinnamon dissolved the windowpane.

A harvest moon of buttered crystal gleamed,

And poured the syrup that the orchards dreamed.

The pumpkins woke, their orange lanterns bright,

And hummed a hymn of incandescent light;

They split their rinds to catch the falling stars,

And traded shadows for sweet-scented jars.

Then came the crisp—a constellation baked,

Of toasted oats and amber dreams awaked.

It crackled softly in the stratosphere,

The sweetest season of the turning year.

With every bite, the cosmos spun anew,

And painted all our waking spirits blue.