[The bells ring out at dawn—clocks rewind, sweaters emerge, and a hush falls over the land. The faithful gather, clutching their reusable cups…]
Blessed be the gourd and the bean,
And the alchemy of autumn’s first sip—
For when the world turns amber and gold,
The Pumpkin Spice Latte descends from on high.
Ye who wander in the wilderness of autumn,
Take heart: salvation is foamed and sprinkled with cinnamon.
Forgive us, O Pumpkin, for we have yearned all year long;
We have lusted after peppermint, dallied with cold brew,
But it is you, oh spiced redeemer, who bring us home.
Great is your mystery, O latte—
Cloaked in nutmeg, veiled in clove,
You resurrect our spirits from the long, iced exile.
Your gospel preaches:
Comfort is not a sin. Sweetness is a right. Autumn is a feeling, not a date on a calendar.
And so we lift our cups:
To basic witches and sweater weather,
To the sacred return of the orange siren,
To those who roll their eyes and those who worship at your altar alike.
May our steps be cozy, our hearts be full,
And may your limited edition reign be long.
Forever and ever—latte.
Amen.
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