The Dessert

Upon the velvet, rust-spun hill of sleep,

Where glowing lanterns graze the twilight sheep,

A copper moon dissolves in cream and spice,

And gravity forgets its own device.

A silver cloud—dry dust of autumn snow—

Descends to kiss the ember-glow below.

No blade is touched, no measured wheel of gear,

Just tumbled visions of the fading year.

The pumpkin weeps its liquid amber gold,

A sun trapped deep within a frosted fold,

While levitating pecans softly chime,

Suspended softly in the womb of time.

Then downward rains the yellow, buttery sand,

A upside-down creation of the hand.

The crust defies the earth and floats on high,

While heavy orchards tumble from the sky.

A feast of dreams, surreal and purely sweet,

Where autumn’s heart and magic gently meet.

No knife required, just lift the heavy spoon,

And eat the golden mirror of the moon.