Three-leaf Clovers
Their little leaflets
face away from the blinds
as if the sun
were a wrathful mother
flashing fierce fists
instead of warm rays
on her yellow children
What to make of shadows
the box of tissue by the pot
for collecting the tears
of anyone brave enough
to cry in group therapy
The couch where I sit
cross-legged
is laden with burdens
of the winter months
as I say a silent prayer
to those tokens
of superstition
far from God's grace
and St. Patrick's Day
Summer Grass
Is there a Crayola color
called "summer grass"
neither green nor yellow
but a blend of both--
"chartreuse"
a word I learned today
from a fellow poet
when I tried to describe
wilting clovers?
If there was such a crayon
would my six-year-old
non-English-thinking brain
be able to visualize it?
Perhaps
it would awaken my desire
to sit on dewy grass
instead of in the attic
like a wild child
my thighs exposed
under forbidden shorts
stung by ants
Falling Leaf
A leaf has fallen
straight to the concrete
with a soft tap
missing my shoulder
Is this how you slip away?
I've begun to lose
my adoration for sparrows
the fat ones weaving
in and out of bushes
I fed them handfuls of rice
from my Chinese takeout
but now I loathe them
for their abundance
and common plumage
As for me
I am a lone blue butterfly
shimmering
everywhere I go
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