Clover

If I took the time to look for luck
in four-leaf clovers or some other
form of charm -- horseshoe, say,
or rabbit's foot (unlucky for the rabbit,
though) -- I couldn't feel more blessed
than when I think, I know,
that I am loved. How many people
go to bed tonight with doubts
about that very thing, while my heart
sings the deeper songs of Easter, yes,
but also tunes with wilder melodies
and rhythms and a bass line that keeps
calling me to dance? I cannot sing
with honesty the hymns that say "God's
all that I desire" because I'm more than spirit.
Food and water, oxygen - what need have
spirits for such nourishment? Just as needful
for my health and happiness, I must have
love that isn't theory, but fact, not fantasy
but flesh and bone and sweat. The Greeks
had different words for love, the love of God,
of family, of friends and country, heat
and passion. Those who have it all, at least
in measure, don't consider luck the source,
but thankfully receive it  as a field of clover
drinks in morning dew it didn't pay for,
couldn't manufacture, is not concerned
that it deserves it or it doesn't. The clover
only knows that dew is good.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014