Shamrock Dreams

As if the grass had leaves my feet glide freely on the breeze where a blade is not nearly a leaf and the shamrock steals my luck like a thief. The four clovered dreams predict a promise that love and riches aren't quite that fully honest and the fields of clover begin to burn yellow brittle and crushed in stealy love mellowed. Should the leprechauns appear to curtail the disappointment clear can we ask for the golden pot or just a glass of beer to fill the spot? Silly shamrock dreams whispering a tease along the steams through the field of gold searching for the wish we hold. Nonsensical play on words should the Irish in me be heard. Trying to do the rhyme time to poetry once more find I'm dying if I'm lying.