The Dessert

A crust of gold, like morning’s early light,

Pressed in by hand, through shadows into sight.

It bakes in warmth, a promise on the tray,

To chase the lingering winter chill away.

Then comes the sun, poured smooth in amber streams,

A filling spun from citrus-scented dreams.

It holds the tartness of a troubled year,

Yet turns it sweet, dissolving every fear.

And over top, the billows softly rise—

A cloud-born white beneath optimistic skies.

Whipped peak by peak, like hopes that start anew,

Kissed by the flame until they burn gold-hue.

Slice through the layers, let the bright spark cheer:

A brighter morning waits just resting here.

For sweet can rise where bitter tartness part—

A joyful dawn, baked in a lemon tart.