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.
Copyright © DM Babbit | Year Posted 2019
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