I am treasure,
Sought by many,
Found by few.

I am coveted,
Valued over necessities,
Symbolic of greed.

I am an enig--
Wait,
Who are you?

A poor old woodcutter,
Based on your sawdust lined clothing
And crease-ridden features.

Age is my hidden talent.
Have you come for my youthful elixir?
Are you weary from your travels?

You seem not to know my effects,
As you bend to collect from my depths.
Prepare for my greatest surprise.

My favorite part of the transfiguration,
Is the residual excitement;
A side effect of my refreshing ale.

Perhaps you have known of my name,
For I must have sparked recognition,
When you peered at your younger self.

Alas, my woodcutter must hurry away,
As if I am a cauldron of witches,
Instead of a fountain of youth.