The Dessert

The autumn air hung heavy, spun of glass,

Where floating amber clocks began to melt.

Beneath my shoes, the velvet-purple grass

Hummed songs of bakers long before they knelt.

An orange moon, half-slumped against the eaves,

Dripped thick molasses down the parlor wall,

While velvet spices whispered through the leaves

To chase away the phantom autumn chill.

She pulled the pastry from a glowing star,

With crusts like spun-sugar clouds in twilight skies,

And carried memory across the floor,

In earthenware dishes of twilight-glazed eyes.

One forkful broke the fabric of the years—

A nutmeg comet trailing cinnamon fire.

The kitchen dissolved in a sweet, heavy tear,

Where time is baked softly, and dreams never tire.