The Dessert

The orchard tilted sideways in the glow,

Where neon berries floated off the vine,

And rhubarb stalks began to bend and grow

Into a pale, translucent tangerine.

A velvet clock was melting on the lawn,

While crimson tides pulled upward to the sky,

Foretelling how the sorrow of the dawn

Would bake inside a single, waking pie.

We rolled the lattice out from woven dreams,

And scooped the syrup from a silver moon,

Watching the colors ripple in the streams

Of afternoons that stretched beyond the noon.

The oven breathed a warm, prismatic heat,

Transforming jagged earth to skies above—

A brilliant proof that sharp things turn to sweet

When wrapped within the crust of what we love.