Blew the first,you did, on rich,pretty, fameor kingdom,then erased yourmistake with No. 2,to resume the samebeing you alwayswere, only moreafraid of whoyou are.*The third wishwaits. It paces.It lies whereyou’ll trip on it.You find yourselfsaying I wish,then like a carstopping too fast:No, I don’t,not for that—or dream ofgiving it away,but to whom?For anyonenew, the wishwould be theirfirst, their worst,and their last.So you driveyour last sweetunuttered magicto the countryto run and breathein the golden,falling leaves.The wishaccompanies youbut keepsits distance,charging the grass,the trees.Such pleasurein its swiftness,its loyalty!*Spend the wishon a million more?That’s cheating.But maybe youdid withoutmeaning to—it’s why youfeel old and lighttoday, tired andprecious, calledby no one,followingnothing at allthrough the brackenand burrs,wild grapes.