I gazed into a wishing well, of what would copper pennies tell?
Of raging fears,
Or silent tears?
All having once been dropped down here.
My mind, it wandered to thoughts of love; what would nickels tell tales of?
Of love so true,
Or hearts so blue?
Maybe someone they once knew..
Too sad, and so I looked away, as I asked of what the dimes would say?
Of stunning fame,
Or staying the same,
Maybe one who was too ashamed.
I closed my eyes; my knees grew weak, at the thought of how quarters might speak..
Of mended seams,
Or broken dreams?
All too real to me it seems.
Wishing wells be centuries old.
Never ask what they've been told
Tree Tomsen is a writer living in Colorado.