The Dessert

The frost unhooks its claws from the stubborn loam,

And amethyst tendrils reach for a moon made of lard.

In the glass-blown orchard, the kitchen grows a dome

Of sugar-spun clouds that have drifted too far.

We harvest the stalks while the shadows are still pink,

Chasing the ghosts of the winter’s long slate;

With flour on our aprons and starlight to drink,

We knead a new orbit and butter the plate.

Beneath the warm crust where the dream-rivers flow,

The sour turns sweet in the heat of the trance—

A bubbling ocean of ruby and glow,

Where memory and morning are learning to dance.

One slice on the saucer, a fork made of bone,

And the kitchen takes root in the infinite blue;

We swallow the summer before it has grown,

And taste how the broken world starts anew.