The Alchemist's Daughter

I wish you would not fondle

the bottles of tincture,

daughter, and disturb the pattern

of my work. It seems futile

for me to ask you not to purse

your lips at every offered proof.

Oh, father, what tender proof

could I offer to you how fond

I am of thinking and pursing

my lips as I do. Your tincture

bottles are just my hand's futile

attempts of finding a pattern.

Do not speak to me of patterns

of thought as I seek a proof

of what is probably an alchemical futility.

Have no doubt that I touch and fondle

the cool glass, too, of my tinctures,

but I do not slip them into my purse.

Ashamed I am that in my purse

of such beautiful handwoven pattern

I have secreted a necessary tincture

and here in my hand is the proof

of it. See how I fondle

your work which I know is not futile.

Oh, daughter, I find it is futile

for me to be angry of your purse

and what it hides. You fondle

my heart; that is our pattern.

Of your love and your shame, no proof

I need from you, only my tincture.

Father, it is a beautiful tincture.

It was foolish and futile

of me to take it. Here is the proof

in my hand, taken from my purse.

Your thought, your work, is your pattern.

It is that, and not me, you fondle.

My work's proof is in this tincture,

which you have fondled, yet it was futile

to hide it in your purse, my love, my living pattern.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the May 17 Wordle prompt at Big Tent Poetry.

I wrote the first four stanzas and then got interrupted. It took me a while to get back to it and finish it.