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.
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