Deirdre and the Shamrock

Behind my house there lives a circle, Of shamrocks grown on dirt so fertile. For the fairies had blessed the ring around, Where the four-leafed clovers poke the ground. When I was young I would sit inside the middle, Of this shamrock circle while I played my fiddle. One day when the sun was high and trees were green, I sat there playing when I was visited by a lovely queen. Her cantaloupe hair had smelled of apricot, And tied up in cords of a seemingly endless knot. She said "My name is Deirdre of the Dawn, I heard your music and mistook you for a fawn. For you strum your instrument with tenor and grace, As if your fingers were weaving soft white words of lace." "How kind," I said to the mystifying woman before me, Whom I could not believe that my eyes could truly see. Seeing the perplexed disbelief on my furrowed brow, She exclaimed the following with a proud curtsied bow: "I know you wonder whether I'm real or fake, So I'll prove to you that you're in fact awake. Pick a shamrock from where you sit, And place it in your pant pocket slit. Now close your eyes and count to three, And when you open them you won't see me. Then when you open what you have closed. You'll find the shamrock hidden in your clothes. After you've found the lucky plant of the Irish, I will then grant you from afar but a single wish." With that she vanished from my sight, And the day had quickly turned into night. I quickly retired to my home in shock, And when I returned from my backyard's lawn, I pulled from my pocket the single shamrock, And wished only to remember Deirdre of the Dawn.