The Wishing Well

November 18, 2005

A smile whispers in the wind
And spreads its wings to fly;
It glides away on phantom dreams
And melts into a sigh.

The wishing well is grey with age—
With creeping moss adorned;
The tide of time has bent its base—
The stones are cracked and worn.

A spark of laughter snickers past
And twinkles as it goes;
But go it does, and where it lands
Only its echo knows.

The water seems at first so calm—
So fathomless and deep;
But countless cares lie hidden there—
Dark dreams that never sleep.

The mist behind obscures the path
That leads the way back home;
The pad of feet on journeys gone
Still echoes on the stone.

The weather here is never clear—
The wind is cold as ice;
The shadows in the wishing well
Exact a painful price.