Clover

I'm not really a poet. My blog has two previous poems; one's a silly sonnet and the other is just four lines of bad Quenya. I've never thought that my poems were particularly good, so I don't often try to write them. But some things just don't seem right in prose. I could write a simple three sentences telling what happened, but that would make it too small and insignificant. I could explain in detail why this little incident struck a chord in me, but that would be too explicit for something so mundane. This story, I think, is best addressed with an attempt at a poem. Here goes. My apologies in advance.

On the lawn I pass
On my walk to work,
I found not one
But two four-leaf clovers.
What double luck!
I thought to pluck,
To press, to keep them
In a book,
Dry and shriveled
Yet preserved,
But chose to leave them
Let them lie
To grow and live
Their lives complete
And marked their place
That I might return
To look upon
Their lucky leaves
Fortunate foliage
Another day.
But then the lawnmower
Lopped off their heads.
Eight leaves of luck
Eight hundred shreds
Now scattered and lost
In the grass.