The Dessert

Upon a loom of lavender skies,

The morning spins a sweet surprise,

Where velvet vines of amethyst

Unfurl from oceans made of mist.

A saffron sun begins to gleam,

And wakes the valley from its dream.

Out spills the orchard’s blazing heart:

A thousand globes of pie and tart,

That roll like moons of liquid gold

Across the clover, manifold.

They hum a low and rhythmic tune,

In cadence with the harvest noon—

A tambourine of ribbed delight,

Painted in cinnabar and white.

The shadows wear a cinnamon grin,

As sapphire breezes tumble in,

To tickle stems of twisted glass

And roll the gourds across the grass.

They drift like clouds of amber flame,

Too grand for any earthly name,

And burst in showers of nutmeg rain,

Across the painted porcelain plain.

O glorious weight of autumn’s yield,

That floats above the levitating field!

A joyful vertigo of sweet,

Where earth and sky in wonder meet,

And every pumpkin lifts its crest

To drift into the golden west.