He was an alchemist
when there were alchemists
who were deserving of the name.
He worked in malleable substances:
bread dough and mud and clay
had brought him fame.
Others conjured gold from old
or pulled the volupté of silk
out of salt hay – but he preferred
incurring births of sentient flesh
out of a mesh of all the better parts
of Earth: mulch and silt
and amber minerals comprised
the heart of his organic arts.
And he would bake them into bread,
or mould them into candlesticks,
or leave them in a cozy lump
and read to them in bed.
He liked his things to be alive.
He didn’t like them dead.