The wish and the well

The old well stood, moss-covered, deep, Where secrets the cool shadows keep. A robin, quite bold, A story unfolds, Of wishes the silent stones weep. Young Thomas, with eyes clear and bright, Approached it one dawn's misty light. He'd heard it was said, What wish in his head, Would echo and bloom in the height. He tossed in a penny, so worn, A dream of a field full of corn. He longed for the yield, To banish the field, Of thistles where hope was forlorn. But the well, in its ancient repose, Played tricks as the soft wind arose. It shifted the plea, To a towering tree, Where squirrels could find nutty repose. So Thomas returned, with a sigh, To find not the corn reaching high, But a sapling so green, The best ever seen, Reaching for the wide, boundless sky. He chuckled, "The well has its way," Though corn wasn't reaped on that day. A shade he would find, A peace for his mind, And knew nature’s whims held their sway.