the wishing well’s chamber holds

Kings and queens and dreams emblazoned

on sleeping copper, waiting for you to believe

that the name they gave to you,

hope had already sang like a kindred hum—and so,

the penny dropped and you became that beautiful lyric

of a descant, under passing moons—born under

the sweet surveillance of stars.

A lunar epitome and a child of the dawn;

blood enriched with reason. A product of ardency,

and delivered by way of a wish,

to teach us sunrise.

© Mollie Mardel