A wish, It’s a piece of dirt in your hand Not a gem, not a clean crystal Holding the rainbow inside. It’s just a clump of dirt, Scattered in the palm of your hand Moving between your fingers As it were alive, breathing, Warming your hands and you heart When you’re cold at night When your thoughts are scattered On the corners of your brain And nothing seems to link them together Except, the touch of that cold dirt The idea of holding something in your hand The wish, The immortal pieces of dirt Waiting to be transformed And depending on your fingers, to change, To morph into the most beautiful ball of dirt- Your, perfect ball of dirt Your idea of wish, Your idea of clinging on to something.