2 APR 2018 AT 23:21

Into the wild, a clover field calls for help
it hasn't seen daylight for six months straight

dew drops are on metronome duty again
and stalagmites play xylophone to spirits
of solitude

I walk right through souls with sangria breath
The hunt for four clovers is as natural to me
As lying down facedown in damp seagrass
How does fate work when fate designates
who picks up the four clover of good fate.

My breath forms mist that lies low:
And through white shadows, a father an a daughter
Crouch low over a Nymphalidae-
one on the ground and a hundred and eight million
in the wind inspiring tornadoes to incarnate.
The daughter learned to write songs in those trips
to the wild.

- RS