I stand above a wishing well
And hurl my whispers down.
Upon my head, sweet rosemary,
Woven infinitely into a crown.
Looking into the blackened waters,
Not a cold response to my pleas.
At least having the scented sprigs
Places my thoughts at ease.
And happy with what I have,
Even something fragile and small.
One day, it’ll rot and disappear,
But will not cause my downfall.