The Dessert

A shore where sugar-tides are spun,

A pastry moon descends to greet the sun.

In valleys deep where ancient mosses cling,

The Cumberland winds wake up and sing,

And lift a golden crust on amber wings.

Behold the Nicky Tart, a dreamy sphere,

Where dreams and rum-soaked currents disappear.

Dates drift like islands in a sea of spice,

And ginger comets streak across the ice.

The pastry weeps a syrup made of light,

Dispelling shadows from the velvet night.

A hopeful alchemy of crust and cream,

Awakening the forest from a dream.

No common oven baked this sweet relief—

It burns away the heavy weight of grief,

And leaves a golden promise on the tongue,

Where every yesterday is newly young.