Well Of Dreams (Poetry)

My well of dreams is running dry —
the level’s sinking low
too deep the surface for the sky
and moon’s reflected glow.

The narrow shaft and crumbling stone
less visited of late
no silver coins like wishes thrown
loss measuring their weight.

What tender storms of passion rained
collecting in that well
were youthful tempests— unrestrained
that like a deluge fell.

But that was many years ago
the weather now is mild
those dark depressions gathered so
have long been reconciled.

Though clouds might hover — threaten tears
they’re sighed upon their way
and sleep is spared old hopes and fears
Dawn welcomes in the day

with no recall — my soul resigned
and rationed — sun and rain.
I’d rather leave those dregs of wine
to dry to a faint stain.