When a blustery wind passes through the seasons of time,

and finely fraught phrasing overwhelms the rhyme,

whereupon a small dapper man with a twinkle in his eye

offers you a whopper and tells you 'tis no lie,

and you find yourself covered in sweet Irish mist,

then you must believe the Blarney Stone kissed.

What you have stumbled upon others have sought,

bartered for, bargained over, bitterly fought.

Yet, you have found, when the day's almost all over

that you have somehow landed in a field of clover.

Do not have the cheek to question your luck,

for if you truly have the chance and the pluck,

you find out there in the grassy field

something of an unbelievably incredible yield.

And when you pick a clover with leaves of four,

you might never wish for anything more,

for such a gift is beyond even a pot o'gold,

and should never be switched, swindled, or told.

This lucky plant, although very small

will give you the world, or almost anything at all.

Throw off your tatters, for 'tis fine clothes you must don

to steal through the seal of a canny leprechaun.

And once you have found your way out of the fray,

count yourself more than blessed on St. Patrick's Day.

Carol Anderson

17 March 2009