I never scrounged the ground for a four-leaf clover
But lounged in the outfield, lacing daisy chains,
Wistfully wishing no ball would plop my way.
Landlocked, I drown in watery images,
For it is Irish to long for seas and lakes;
Today I will stomp an icy mud puddle
And misspell my name: Cait catches my fancy—
If lucid dreams were only true. . . .
The Atlantic rolls rough on Carolina shores,
No wild swan will touch down, only wind-braced birds
Trekking and pecking ripples erasing their prints.
A dark room at dusk, the beach is wet with clouds,
A dim black-and-white likeness: smoky gray puffs.
The sun sinks the sand into inky stains,
And my depression runs wild with joy
As the tide washes out, leaving silvery pools—
Footfalls shimmering on swiftly burned charcoal.
I take whiskey neat from a Kildare tumbler;
My hazel eyes turn green today, not my beer.
Lucky me.
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