The Dessert

The pantry doors unhinged to skies of glass,

Where purple planets ripened in the grass.

A harvest pulled from craters of the moon,

To stir inside a silver-rimmed lagoon.

The dough was spun from whispers of the dawn,

A lattice woven where the mist had drawn

Soft arches over hills of liquid light,

To bake the shadows of the fading night.

We sliced the crust, and time began to bloom—

A constellation anchored in the room.

Each shriveled sun, now plump with morning dew,

Brought back the world in iridescent blue.

A single bite, and gravity took flight;

We tasted galaxies in golden light.

No bitter core, no remnant of the chill—

Just endless summer, waiting on the sill.