The Dessert

It is the crust of a porcelain moon,

Where cinnamon constellations croon,

We knead the velvet of autumn skies

To bake the dream of the Pumpkin Hand Pies.

Stirred with a splash of a comet’s glow,

The orange ember ignites the dough.

Nutmeg rivers and ginger streams

Flow through the heart of the waking dreams.

Crimped with the touch of a velvet breeze,

They float like lanterns among the trees.

No giant slab upon plate is spread—

Just pastry comets for hands to bed.

One bite releases a singing ghost

Of harvest warmth that the stars love most.

A floating feast as the twilight sighs—

Sweet golden moons in our waiting hands lie.