idea: so many pies, so little time

The Geometry of Crumb

There are mountains piled in the pantry deep,
A landscape built of butter, flour, and sleep.
So many pies, a dizzying array,
Each crust a promise, brightening the day.

From flaky secrets spun in golden light,
To lattice cages, sharp and bright.
Apple, cherry, pecan, berry sweet,
A hundred flavors where hunger meets retreat.

The oven roars, a frantic, hungry sound,
As hurried minutes spin upon the ground.
We chase the clock with flour-dusted hands,
Building empires of sugar and demands.

So little time, a ticking, fragile thread,
Between the recipe and what is fed.
The timer screams, the heat begins to fade,
A silent negotiation, swiftly made.

It is the magic tangled in the steam,
The fleeting moment of a waking dream.
When cinnamon and nutmeg softly blend,
And all the hurried worries find an end.

We stack the trays, a fragile, baked array,
Hoping the perfect moment will hold sway.
A dozen visions, waiting on the shelf,
Each filled with effort, warmth, and baking self.

There is a chaos in the kitchen air,
A symphony of spice beyond compare.
The sticky glaze, the perfect flaky edge,
A tiny triumph from a narrow ledge.

For every crust that cools upon the rack,
There is a memory we can take back.
A silent language understood and true,
Of hours spent beneath a kitchen hue.

So many pies, a bounty to behold,
A story whispered, worth more than gold.
We trade the seconds for the sweet delight,
And find true peace in the fading light.

And when the forks arrive, and taste the sweet,
The rush dissolves into a quiet treat.
For in that circle, warm and soft and deep,
The precious moments are the promises we keep.