In the foliage of my life, I was honey,
something extracted, poured into another,
so when you found me
there was no resemblance
to my former self. Adept at transformation,
I jotted notes on where
to retrieve myself. Across fields of forever,
someone like me spent days rifling through clover,
especially for the illusive four-leafed one
to snap in a locket—the Holy Trinity above my heart.
A teacher once said shamrocks bring luck
and luck is perseverance: Keep at something
long enough and the gold of art becomes revelation.
In all honesty, my former name escapes me,
and the person you thought I was
a façade. Let’s face it,
becoming a self is hard work.
Now I call myself Clover.