At the Wishing Well long ago,

I stubbed a toe; thinned blood

in crimson water. Upon

the casted spell, I became the

fool by the con of the well.

The deceitful came, their

wishes shallow. They didn’t

understand my well only

grants ground water.

My insults wore a cloak—a phony

gift for each selfish wish, while

their souls did drift.

The mirror of my waters

warned them of their sin,

the hill at ...

I am built out of sticks.

From bark, not bricks;

From fruit that rots, and

Forest fire ash that fuels politics.

I do not move, I watch the others pass.

They drink from my sap—

my roots they trespass,

And pluck my flowers,

Then stomp on the grass.

But once watered by a girl

who pushed me to grow,

with her grandmother’s memory

she wished me to stow

of stories gilded in golden glow,

And sorrow that...