Troubles of a Wishing Well

She's filled to the brim with wishes.
Penny wishes, dime wishes, slip-of-paper wishes,
some shiny, some rusty,
but all of them have a little glimmer from
the hope of the person who wished.

She's filled to the brim with wishes.
Silly wishes, simple wishes, sad wishes.
Wishes that make her cry and
ones that make her smile and
ones that make her sigh because
it's hard, sometimes, to grant them.

She's filled to the brim with wishes.
Wishes for magic and
wishes for safety,
wishes for fitting in and
wishes for no more broccoli.
And some could be laughed at,
some could be joked about
some could be met with scorn,
some with a shake of the head.

But she doesn't laugh or scorn or
dismiss it as another crazy wish. No,
for her each wish is an individual,
she sees them all with
understanding eyes.

She's filled to the brim with wishes. She
tries to keep up, but, well, there are a lot of them.
She's filled to the brim with wishes, and
she stuffs herself even more,
though she's filled to the brim with wishes and
space is running out.
She's filled to the brim with wishes, and suddenly
there's hardly space for her, only
a single wish of her own:
that someday, perhaps, she can grant them all.