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Clear skies, children’s laughter, old lawn chairs line the street, people wearing giant shamrocks,
Leprechaun leggings, rainbow shirts, fluffy green skirts trimmed in white lace, the smell of ham hocks.
Excitement mounts, people crane their necks, for a glimpse of beautiful Irish Day queen.
Familiar to all, because she works at the store; her glorious smile serene.
She’s waving a gentle hand; she mouths something to me, mommy, yet part of the flock.

I smile with pride, at my daughter, with her brown breezy tresses, her happy ways.
Her eyes are snapping with gladness; she’ll remember this until the end of her days.
As she glides past me, smile big as Texas, on a giant St. Patty’s day float,
The mom in me grins like a deranged dog, I am valiantly trying not to gloat.
“The queen is my daughter,” my husband yells, so I look at him with all kinds of craze.

“What he asks me?” innocently, a completely, utterly unknowing manner.
“They all know we’re her parents,” I say, nodding hello to my 80 plus Grand-mere.
“Colleen! Colleen!” She yells; with the bellow of a bleeding goat whose life can’t be saved.
Although the float is practically out of sight, my daughter hears, turns; and gaily waved.
The children are chasing the float now, because when turning she lost her queen banner.

“Have they started throwing the candy?” My wildly untamable grandma demands. 
“Six tons of it,” my husband teases her. “Here come the performing marching bands!”
The first band’s showy with sparkly rhinestones hats that came off their head in a whirl.
The next band is dressed in yellow shirts, every two seconds they complete a twirl.
Children are dashing into the street for candies now; yes, the day was grand!

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