Maybe the grass will be greener,

The hills smoother,

The well deeper,

Sweeter—

If wishing makes it so.

If dreaming births hope—

I know.

The world won’t teeter,

The branch won’t bend itself low—

And the soil won’t rise to meet her.

Not for the dreamer

To grab hold of fruit that much quicker.

Nor will that water become liquor

Simply because it was told.

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