The Clover

I found a four-leaf clover and felt like writing about it

When walking away the hours of the day,

Perchance I discovered a plant,

Unlike all others I ever have seen,

With three leaves on their whimsical branch,

The clover possessed an extra appendage,

A mutation of original specie,

Spinning its stem in between my fingers,

Its singularity the allure that I see.

I safely stowed it between the pages,

Of a large dry literature tome,

Instantly making the once lonely hardcover,

The flora’s unconventional home,

Preserved between pages 43 and 44,

My peculiar item has lain,

Only vacationing into my palm,

When I ritually observe its remains,

Its distinctiveness both amazes and riles me,

A green diamond amidst all the stones,

I’ve picked at the fourth leaf tempted to alter,

Its differences to make it its own,

Tempted to murder the beautiful quirk,

End the reign of the unique leaf,

With a pluck of its show of difference,

It joins me in clone-like defeat.