The Dessert

Upon a porcelain plate of spun-glass blue,

Where shadows melt and skies begin to brew,

They set the table for a dream to rise—

A quiet miracle in humble guise.

No orchard fruit, no berries pressed in red,

No flour milled from any mortal bread,

Yet watch the ripples of the glass-smooth shell:

A liquid magic drawn from wishing well.

With drops of rain and morning’s purest dew,

Whisked thick with sunlight filtering anew,

They poured the river into crystal crust

And sealed the longing with a breath of trust.

It bakes in silence where the comets glow,

Above the rivers where the star-winds blow,

A phantom pastry holding skies untold,

Of silver lining and of liquid gold.

And though it seems too fragile for the tongue,

The sweetest songs are of the lightest sung.

A single slice can heal the heavy heart:

Where nothing was, let everything depart.

For hope is baked in depths so clear and deep,

It stirs the wonders that the oceans keep—

A slice of heaven, born of mist and sky,

We taste the future in a water pie.