The Dessert

Upon the wooden board, the morning light

Awakes to chase the shadows of the night.

A sphere of gold, of crisp and autumn air,

Awaits the gentle magic waiting there.

Slice by slice, the crimson peel gives way,

Revealing amber fruit, a heart of clay

Turned sweet by patience, cradled in a bowl,

To mend the quiet corners of the soul.

With flour-dusted hands and steady grace,

A lattice woven in a warm embrace,

We tuck the edges in, a sacred seal,

Against the winds that try to make us reel.

Into the dark it goes, a quiet test,

While longing beats against an anxious chest.

Yet soon, a promise rises from the heat—

Of golden crusts and cinnamon so sweet.

O scent of hope, that drifting through the door,

Brings brighter days within our reach once more.

A simple crust, a future to impart:

There is always sweetness baked into the heart.