Open-Shut

A little shamrock plant I own, With purple leaves, has nicely grown And though my thumb is far from green, It clings to staying on the scene. New shoots sprout up when old ones die, A never-ending stem supply Of trefoil leaves that nod and dance When breezes give them half a chance. At night, they close themselves up tight, A sight that brings me much delight. I’ve never caught them in the act; Perhaps we’ve made a silent pact. Yet once the daylight’s lit the sky, With sunbeams glowing from on high, The leaves pop open in their way To greet another brand-new day.