Lucky leafs
I found a shamrock crushed against my sister’s walking boot;
She left the left one in the hallway, when we got back from picking fruit.
She said she didn’t care about such a stupid superstitious thing,
She said that I could keep it, good and bad luck don’t mean anything.
My grandmama – whose fruit we picked – praised my sharpened eye,
And when we settled down to eat, served me the first wedge of pie.
My sister’s protest of unfair! Was completely overlooked,
And grandmama said "well, where were you when the pie was to be cooked?"
I rolled the pastry out, I washed up while grandmama plated;
My sister had slipped quietly outside, and dodged the chores she hated.
"It’s because she found that stupid clover, isn’t it?" She shouted.
Grandmama took away her pie; shocked into silence, she only pouted.
"The clover’s lucky." I explained. "Do you want to have a go?"
"How can it be lucky, it’s just a weed. Let me see, I want to know!"
Grandmama said "Four leafers are novel and hard to see, and sneaky, lay in
wait:
And if you’re alert enough for them, you’re can make your own good fate."
My sister thought a while, went back to her boots, and looked for more good luck,
But all she found was grass and dirt and crushed plums in the muck.
She promised to look harder next time, determined to find her own:
She declared luck something you could plant, and harvest once its grown.
