The Wishing Well

                             A canopy of green shaded the path,
                             The path through the trees- through the woods out back.
                             The maze through shade gave way to a clearing,
                             A clearing- the clearing hacked from the black.
                             At the end of the path- there appearing
                             The clearing in wash- in a sunlight bath.

                             And there- there’s a glare off the weathered stone.
                             The stone is all that’s left of what once stood,
                             Stood in the clearing- the clearing in light.
                             Not a stick or slat- not a piece of wood,
                             Just the stones in the clearing shining bright—
                             The house shed its skin leaving bare bright bone.

                             Next to the foundation, rests the black fence,
                             The fence that guarded those at rest- at home,
                             At home in the ground marked by their headstones.
                             Through the gate- through the gate, yes- I did roam,
                             And I read the stones covering their bones—
                             Centuries of family graves- strange, my sense.

                             The newest over a hundred years old,
                             In a pristine clearing bathed in the sun,
                             Cared for with love- with such love, but by whom?
                             The fence wore a cared for coat- the work done—
                             And each grave meticulous with fresh bloom,
                             And goose bumps rolled over me- I felt cold. 

                             Between the foundation stones and the graves
                             Sat a well- a well protected by rock—
                             Dark weathered rock surrounded the deep pit
                             And ran full to the floor, dried by the clock.
                             Moss grew inside and out- the side not lit,
                             The green tipped white like foamy ocean waves.

                             Deep in the pit where the sun hit the floor,
                             There on the floor was a sparkling glare—
                             The glare of mirror deep in the dry well
                             Reflected the sun- as down deep I stare.
                             There in the dell- in the hollow the smell,
                             The odor of mold from a time before.

                             Coins in the wishing well lay on their bed,
                             Asleep on their back or on their belly
                             But shining the same from their head or tail.
                             Someone fed the hole and it was costly
                             Somebody that walked the same shaded trail—
                             The trail to the clearing is what we tread.

                             Who after all this time- all of the years?
                             A home without trace and graves in this place
                             With the wishing well- the well that was dry.
                             But in the bleak hollow time could not chase
                             Away the hands that refused the goodbye;
                             And with the thought of such care came my tears.

                             Then- from where I stood, I heard the shuffle—
                             Dragging feet, rustling leaves, in approach.
                             I stared at the cave that left the hollow,
                             From the dell I peered upon the encroach;
                             Into the light- darkness did not follow
                             The century old man that dragged the duffel.

                             He saw me there- nodded without a word
                             And carved a path to the deep open hole;
                             There he stood for a time looking around.
                             He was old- this man, the century’s soul;
                             The soul that looked deep- he looked deep- way down
                             And reached in his pocket and then I heard,

                             The jingle of coin as he fished for it—
                             The one that he would use to make his wish.
                             Satisfaction covered his craggy face
                             As he brought into light the wishing fish.
                             There he stood in silence at the well’s base
                             As he peered down deep into the dark pit.

                             He lifted his hand and I heard him say,
                             “Tonight- tonight-tonight, please let it be,
                             Let it be tonight I finally leave;
                             Let it be tonight that you visit me—
                             Open heaven and let my love receive
                             Me back into her arms, this night- today.”

                             And with the flip of his wrist the coin flew
                             Into the wishing well with his request—
                             The request that he hoped would bring his death.
                             I watched as he stood with his heaving chest
                             Struggling to regain its shallow breath—
                             The breath that refused the death he was due.

                             I approached and said, “Hello, how are you?”
                             I extended my hand and said, “I’m Jim.”
                             He took my hand and he said, “Willie Jones.”
                             With his name, my mind flashed away from him
                             To the stones- the stones that covered the bones;
                             Behind the fence- Jones ran the rows all through.

                             I made the comment- he nodded his head.
                             With difficultly- but also sad pride
                             As he told me here is where his heart lay.
                             He was twenty-one the day his love died—
                             It was the last gave dug since that dark day.
                             For a hundred years, he wished he were dead.

                             Given one hundred and twenty-one years—
                             For a century, he gave his love and care.
                             Willie Jones was granted his wish that night—
                             A love that would not die passed in his chair
                             And I like to think that his soul took flight
                             Into the arms that wiped away his tears.

                             A canopy of green shades my new path,
                             The path through the trees- through the woods out back.
                             The maze through shade gives way to a clearing,
                             A clearing- the clearing hacked from the black.
                             At the end of the path- there appearing
                             The clearing in wash- in a sunlight bath.

                             Now in the clearing, upon which I came,
                             Cared for by hands that nobody has seen.
                             Willie Jones was the last- who is it now?
                             Someone is giving care- keeping it clean.
                             Everyday I go to the well and bow,
                             Toss a coin and wish for almost the same.

                             Everyday I walk through the rows of bones
                             And read the stones with surnames just like mine.
                             Each day is a hundred years to the sun
                             Over the dark hollow of my decline;
                             Each day I pass- a hundred years is one—
                             Each breath in empathy with Willie Jones.

                             Walking the path, I could hear the shuffle
                             As I dragged my feet rustling the leaves,
                             Walking the wooded cave toward the hollow.
                             The light of the clearing … my soul perceives—
                             And stepping into the light I swallow,
                             Nod- and carve a path out with my duffel.

                             He watched my approach- not saying a word
                             My approach to the well with the deep hole;
                             There he stood for a time looking around
                             He was young- this man, the unknowing soul.
                             Into his face I looked deep- deep- way down—
                             The young man looked like me- the thought occurred.

                             I wished and he said, “Hello, how are you?”
                             I took his hand and he said he was Slim
                             And without thinking I said, “Jimmy Fin.”
                             Hearing it, my mind flashed away from him
                             To the stones covering the bones within;
                             Behind the fence, Fin ran the rows all through.

                             He made a commit- I nodded my head
                             With difficulty but also some pride,
                             I told him that this is where my heart lay.
                             Here in the clearing since my love had died
                             And it is here that I am everyday
                             And for all the years I wished I were dead.

                             I left him in the clearing- in the light
                             And I entered the cave heading for rest.
                             It was time to rest- to rest in my chair
                             The chair on my porch where I rest depressed,
                             Thinking of the days- fate refused to spare.
                             Here in my chair I sit awaiting night.