Clover

Emerald green, speckled streaks of

Malachite, gleaming prasiolite,

Woven, banded like rings.

Each trefoil leaflet unique,

A fingerprint of its own.

Veins like glowing streams, 

Trickling paths of molten gold through light.

A softly jagged edge reveals

Pink sunset thorns, 

As fragile and calm as a newborn spider’s silk.

Spindly and quaint, a proud standing loner,

An emerald gem to pluck.

A spread of clovers,

Dancing on a sweet-kissed zephyr,

An open cave of tumbled stones,

Sparkling in dull light.

Together, a verdant carpet,

Pocketfuls of hopeful luck.