The Transformative Alchemy Of A Smoking Pipe Poem by Peter Vector

Earth:

The dried tobacco leaves mashed down against the innards
Of my receptacle for change.
It is as great a container for this magic science
As any flask or distiller.

Fire:

One, two, three matches and the embers start to catch.
A stout aroma wafts from the barrel of transmutation.
Little crackles come from the inside of my kettle.

Air:

White wisps float away in the darkness of the back porch,
And with them memories of times now past.

Water:

A quick shower, so as not to piss off the missus.