Wishing Well
A ghostly white mist
marbles the well
that the ivy guards silently.
The water within is thirsty
for my silver. Armed to the hilt,
I trigger a coin from my pocket
and watch it dance through the air,
its nose glinting in the low winter sun.
A splash curls up from beneath
and nuzzles inside my eyes,
clouds them with her dappled face
like mist in a mirror.
She has planted my wish in this garden
and marbled this insatiable conscience.
