I want to make a wish
at an artesian well. Take me 

to the old comfort
station near the 125-year-old iron 

footbridge. No longer providing relief
to men, women, children passing by, 

it aerates the pond. Who will
aerate me? 

From this curved history, I can see
a pond in transition— 

half ice, half water freed
from the long arm 

of Minnesota winter.  I don’t need
a hug from that set 

of limbs. I’ve wiggled out
of that passive 

aggressive affair. Lately, I take
winter in layers, leave it 

behind when the last chunk
dissolves to crack open 

a warmer motion.
I no longer dread 

seeing the old lover—he’s got nothing
on me these days. I know how 

to remain unattached. I’m ready 

to place my feet before the well,
to drop the coin in.