A glass Petrie dish
holds the first stirrings of life—
a primordial soup,
a fleck of dust that dreams,
curling tendrils under the microscope’s eye.
Here, alchemy is patience,
the slow dance of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen—
a promise whispered in the dark waters.
In the incubator’s warmth,
the ancient sun meets the new dawn.
Invisible hands turn the wheel of becoming—
a ritual of breath and pulse,
of roots curling in the womb of the earth.
This, too, is alchemy—
the translation of silence into heartbeat,
of empty space into matter.
The garden is a crucible—
a small green universe
where light dissolves into chlorophyll,
and seed splits with the soft crack
of thunder underground.
Fingers sift through soil,
drawn by the smell of rain.
From the dead husk of last year’s harvest,
a tendril pushes skyward—
alchemy in bloom,
transforming death into the language of petals.
Inside the womb,
the first symphony stirs.
Blood, like molten gold,
flows through veins that shimmer with creation.
Cells split like alchemists’ equations,
crafting limbs from the air,
eyes from the sea’s ancient memory.
The human heart is forged here,
beating with the rhythm of stars,
alchemy spun from darkness,
life conjured from the void.
In the philosopher’s stone of time,
all things transmute—
lead to gold, seed to fruit,
a spark from flint igniting flame.
The breath of the universe
rises and falls,
alchemy held in the silence
between the inhale and the exhale.
We are the product, the residue—
the answer left at the bottom of the flask.
In the crucible of history,
we scatter ash into the wind,
waiting for the elements to bind,
for a flash of something eternal—
light from nothing,
a prayer breathed into the void.
The alchemy of becoming—
a spell woven with sweat and soil,
a transformation
unseen but felt,
like the smell of rain before the storm.
Poetic Alchemist 