The Dessert

Golden hour spilled across the counter,

sticky fingers and a haze of cinnamon

dancing in the golden light.

Summer captured in a round tin,

waiting to burst.

We wrestled with the flour,

laughing as white clouds settled on our noses,

rolling out the dough until it sighed

and draped itself over the sun.

Inside, the slices wept sweet amber tears—

velvet flesh of orchards,

kissed by long July days

and cradled in sugar.

Then the oven worked its magic,

a low and steady hum,

breathing butter and burnt-sugar warmth

straight into our eager bones.

And when it finally met the blade—

crust shattering like applause,

steam rising in a giddy sigh—

we didn't wait for plates.

Just spoons, and windows wide to the breeze,

and the pure, sticky triumph

of happiness baked just right.