The clover has become my favorite flower.
Not for the leaves of four that bring good luck –
In all my life I’ve never been able to find one
Search though I may.
This small white weed mars our otherwise perfect lawn.
Finally free from dandelions and crabgrass,
It’s the clover that lingers
And attracts the bees
That make me scared to let my children
Roam barefoot in the grass
As every child should.
Their lightly scented flowers are unattractive,
But their beauty is found
When they are brought to me
By a little boy with outstretched arms.
One bloom chosen from among the many
“For you, Mommy,” he says, grinning
And then my heart melts
And that flower is more beautiful than any rose.
So many of these blossoms have been handed to me
Each summer by my darling boys.
And just today, with a heavy heart,
I visited for the first time
The spot where my baby girls lie.
They have been there together for one month now.
As I sat in the grass weeping and speaking to them,
I looked around through eyes blurred by tears,
And noticed clovers there as well –
These ones touched with palest pink.
It felt like my girls were giving them to me too,
And I felt so lucky.
I wrote this not long after Brigid was buried in 2011, but every summer the clovers make me think of them. Butterflies, too. What things make you think of your little winged ones?