The Dessert

In orchards spun from ancient spells,

Where autumn weaves her golden charms,

The twilight holds a thousand bells,

And pulls the frost into her arms.

Upon the sill, an earthen bowl

Awakes the ghosts of yesteryears,

A fragrant warmth to soothe the soul,

Dispelling all the silver tears.

The crimson apples, sliced and deep,

Are buried under stardust crust,

Waked softly from their winter sleep,

By cinnamon and wizard’s dust.

A bubbling potion, sweet and bright,

With magic churning in the heat,

It brews the magic of the night,

Where fairy-tales and hunger meet.

And closing eyes, I drift away,

Borne backward on a swirling breeze,

To childhood’s long-forgotten day,

Beneath the spell-bound orchard trees.