Down, down, way down, at the very bottom 
of the old wishing well, 
the one with the broken crank, no rope, and no pail, 
the one still covered by the quaint, 
scant roof meant to keep other things out, 

down, down to where the memories you keep 
lie at the bottom like tarnished pennies,
one day, there will appear a splendid fish, 
as red and as gold as your fabulous cape,
my princess, my forlorn one.

You will see it swim in the deep, 
distorting murk we all wish to forget,
fluttering its fins like a fledgling,
testing its way out of the well, 
and you will drop a line, a strangling
thread from your cape, unspun in desperation,
trying, once more, to reach beyond 
the bottom to where there are no memories.

But, you will catch this fish, instead, 
reeling it in like a new story worth telling, 
unnoticed until now, though it has always been there
flickering about between the dull coins. 

And after you pull up this fish 
with its sparkling gossamer fins
you will wrap it gently in the matching 
colors of your cape, carry it in your scarred arms 
all the way up the narrow, insufficient pass 
with its many twists and turns,
along the whole crueltyof that journey,
then finally down the other side to a calm place, 
where the lake water licks the shore in little waves.

There, you will kneel down and surrender
all that you’ve carried into that clear water,		
stretching yourself out to swim with the fish, 
the beautiful one you rescued.