CONCOCTION

Keep steeping in silence

to distill—

“First, the clay pot”,

antique, unearthed, archaic.

“Watch the fire”,

a test of skill, inexpressible.

“Steep long”,

an endless melding.

The guiding scent of herbs, strange roots,

stems, leaves, becomes your breath and blood.

Your eyes swim with alchemists’ lore,

ecstatic, uncertain of the age.

These times select so few,

you’re a happy case.

Such bitter, undilute quintessence

needs not one

drop of water.