Sweet Sprigs of Rosemary

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.