I picked a clover on my way today.
It had three leaves and brought me
No such luck,
I just needed to have it in my hand.
The wind howled like Old Ladies in Church,
Sporadically and with conviction.
I wondered if church could explain where wind
Goes, where wind Ends.
I twisted my clover’s stem between my index and thumb,
It twirled and caught air.
I followed it as God’s whispers carried it down
Quiet streets.
Once in a while, I’d be joined by a neighbor,
They’d tell me about their ailments and successes,
Their wives, husbands, children, and all of the
Important people I’d never meet.
They didn’t know they had joined me on a quest,
Just that we were going the same direction and
“You might find this interesting.”
We all followed the clover as it jumped
Over houses, I leaped above fences.
One neighbor might be bringing another neighbor dinner,
So then I’d get some dinner too.
I never went hungry in all my days of walking.
Eventually the wind got tired and stopped.
It was cold outside, no wind-ruffled-hair pushed me,
We were far past it now.
Where the clover had brought me, I had never been before.
There was a single chair in front of an oak tree,
I had been walking for so long, I figured
I might as well sit.
In front of the chair was a mirror, propped up
By the tree trunk. I didn’t know how it got there,
Maybe it had been curious,
And followed the wind too.
I saw myself, wind-beaten,
Miles-deep trenches carved into my face.
Through every one of the traveled trenches,
My face got older and wiser alongside
Faces of found friends
I had known better than my own,
With wives and husbands and children
With names like Frank or Pauline or Marcia.
They didn’t know they had walked me here.
The clover stitched itself to the dirt,
Laying obediently between the toes
Of my worn walking shoes.
It was greener than it had ever been,
Brighter than the first glimpse of sun
After dark grays,
As if to say:
“We’ve walked a lot of people home.”
