Admixture

Rain, sleet, snow, mist
In the forecast.
Only the mist

Makes it to ground
And shawls the cliffs.
Another day

Of well-mixed world.
If we could bet
Within a text,

We would bet you,
Whoever you
Happen to be,

As long as you
Identify
Yourself by name,

Meaning human,
Your day’s been mixed—
Not unalloyed

Joy, for sure, not
Unalloyed grief
Or pain, likely.

Purity is
A chimera,
Get it, but it

Does make some sense
To want it bad,
Just since it’s myth.

You crave what’s rare
More than common
And what’s rarer

In this well-mixed
Existence than
What can’t exist?