The Dessert

A floating plate of porcelain blue,

The autumn midnight spun a dream come true.

A silver spoon—a wand of waking light—

Carved through the marrow of the velvet night.

First came the cloud, a foam of liquid cream,

Whipping the edges of a waking dream,

Where cinnamon dust fell softly from the sky,

Like falling stars that whispered lullaby.

Below, the ginger ladies-fingers sleep,

Drowned in espresso oceans dark and deep,

While ribbons of bright amber harvest-fire

Surged upward in a sweet, surreal desire.

For hidden deep within the mascarpone haze,

The pumpkin glowed with old, enchanted rays—

A sun condensed to spice and velvet meat,

Bitter-sweet sorrow turned to harvest sweet.

We ate the horizon, spoon by golden spoon,

Beneath the glaze of a September moon,

Where floating forks and laughing shadows meet,

And gravity surrendered to the treat.