The Dessert

Beyond the lavender rim of the sleeping moon,

Where rivers run backward in silver-strung tune,

The valley awakens in amethyst light,

And dreams are distilled from the juice of the night.

A kitchen hangs loose in the gossamer air,

With no walls to confine it, no floor and no stair.

The stove is a cloud that exhales gentle heat,

Where time slows its breathing and whispers defeat.

Upon a long table of moonbeam and glass,

The berries are gathered from dew-dripping grass.

Not heavy with earth, but spun from the skies—

They hold the deep violet of future-dawned eyes.

With hands made of stardust and fingers of breeze,

The baker kneads light from the whispering trees.

She rolls out a crust from the milk of the stars,

Unburdened by sorrow, untouched by old scars.

The filling is simmered in wishes untold,

A treasure of sweetness more brilliant than gold.

And into the oven of twilight it goes,

To waken the world from its heavy repose.

One slice on a plate made of morning’s first blue—

A bite of the magic that makes all things new.

For wrapped in the crust where the wild shadows lie,

Is the infinite hope of a huckleberry pie.