Glaze

On the warm bun, a mirror gleam,
Sugar spun on morning air.
A quiet crack, a gentle gleam—
The promise of the baker's care.

Not born of fire, nor kiln's deep glow,
But from the bowl, the whisk, the spoon,
Where humble egg and sweetness slow
Become a light, translucent monsoon.

It glazes not the potter's vase,
But scones, the tart, the doughnut's crown—
A transient, edible, fleeting grace
That turns the ordinary down.

So here's to glaze, both clear and thick,
The weekend's first sweet, shining trick.