Alchemy is sifting dry ingredients into,
The mush of wet, to stir and stir,
And hope to dissolve, mix, combine,
Sending complex particles to heat,
And rise, or hope to rise,
To create and wait,
Then create some more,
Then wait some more,
Nearly ad infinitum.
The cakes cooling on plates,
Because we have no racks,
No proper tools,
Doing the best we are able,
Because this work is important. 
(Tribal, ancient hands building the fire,
Boiling the cauldrons, waving the smoke,
In signals for gathering and feast.)
Reductions simmering,
Making paste from solids,
Turning almost nothing into a fully,
Complete something.
Hopefully something.
(A ritualistic dance being done from,
Counter to counter,
The timer the beat of a drum.)
Oh, please turn out like magic,
That will entice the company of others.

Alchemy has nothing to do with gold,
But everything to do with curing the pit,
Of loneliness that we host in,
Each of our concaving stomachs and,
Our concaving, hungry hearts.