The Alchemist Works at Midnight
                         by Jon Remmerde

Alchemy is not illegal,

though the Bible says don’t mess with magic.

I take my damnation seriously.

Cold winter nights,

I plumb the depths of reality,

charm elements until they give up their identity

and change to other elements entirely.

I cried frustration when every possible market

rejected this short story

and this essay.

I would have wagered it would publish,

but I put it into the bin

where it accumulated dust of years

passing to years.

I apply fire, boil essences.

Golden moonlight shines in my window

a willing participant in a conspiracy through all time.

I sprinkle magic powders

indiscernible from the dust of passing time,

dust of increased wisdom, dust of developing perspective,

dust of broadening experience,

until the essential being of this stillborn prose

sheds pages of irrelevancy and transmutes

to a few flowing lines of poetry,

changeling of rhythm, bright nugget from the center.

I am happy as fresh fruit punch, though not all that glitters is gold.

This poem won’t pay my mortgage nor mow my lawn

nor run necessary errands of the coming day.

History forgets unkempt lawns, foreclosed dwellings,

petty problems of individual material survival.

The gibbous moon falls toward western trees

Quickly, before it leaves me this night,

I will weave its soft silver light

to golden lines of lasting images.