The Dessert

The morning sliced the violet sky,

And poured peach-light from up on high,

Where clouds dissolved like spun-glass wool

To fill the quiet world, and full.

Upon a sill of liquid slate,

The cosmos rested on a plate:

A single tart of amber pear,

Suspended in the amber air.

Its crust was woven out of dreams,

Of golden hours and silver gleams,

And in its heart, the fruit burned bright—

A bottled sun, a captive light.

A clockwork bee with velvet wings

Arrived and hummed of better things,

And tiptoed on the varnished glaze

To sip the sweetness of the days.

No shadow lingered near the rim;

The edges curved, so soft, so dim,

As if the pastry could untwine

And bloom again upon the vine.

It whispered of a coming spring

Where every broken wheel takes wing,

And time forgets the heavy chill,

And holds this moment, bright and still.