The Dessert

Upon the counter, cooling in the morn,

A quiet symbol of a day newborn,

A pastry shell, so humble and so sweet,

Awaiting hands to make the table complete.

Within the crust, a lake of golden gleam,

A baked perfection born of simple dream.

The butter melts, the amber sugars blend,

A promise made by some familiar friend.

It whispers softly of the freezing cold,

Of fireside warmth and stories yet untold,

Of golden leaves that dance upon the breeze,

And golden sunlight filtering through trees.

With every bite, the heavy shadows part,

A rush of pure devotion fills the heart.

For even in the chill of autumn’s start,

There is sweet hope—baked in a butter tart.