To the person who left their four-leaf clover in a book of Wordsworth I found in the thrift store,
First of all, thank you.
You have reminded me that today I am very lucky
To be able to breath
In and out
For to be alive is such a wonderful mystery
And so much a journey
I wonder if it was your intention to have the clover found
By me, a stranger
On page 254,
In the section of miscellaneous sonnets
Next to a poem to the poet John Dyer
“The Bard of the Fleece”
Or if you placed it there randomly
And let go of the book absent-mindedly.
I wonder who you were and where you were from
And how came you upon this noble treasure.
Was it during a hike up in the Appalachia?
Or a gift from a sweetheart in the city?
Currently the clover appears old
And the book appears much older.
Come to think of it
I can’t quite remember how long it is I who has owned it
Or where exactly I first acquired it
Without opening it to this very page until now.
I’m uncertain if I’ve ever even read from this volume
Or if I just carried it around for the aesthetic pleasure
Its leather-bound form placed upon my bookshelf.
You see, it was Thoreau, and then Whitman as well
Who just now made me think recently of retracing my own studies
To this master wordsmith that is Wordsworth
Their words and experiences so dictated by the romance of his language
Also his playful tongue in cheek
And this pleasant synchronicity
Only adds to my current enlightened state of mind
Transcendental and flowy
Like a breeze through tall grass
And summer dandelions
I thought I must write a poem immediately
And try to reach out to you somehow
And yet where are you now?
Or where have you been?
Are you old and withered like the clover
Worn and water-stained like these paginated musings
Or have you gone underground
To join Wordsworth in his romanticized heaven?
Oh, to be alive in this great fantasy
I can count the times I’ve found a four leaf clover
On a single hand
Having not searched for them outright
Since a young boy
But this is the first time I’ve found
Such a thing
In a book of poetry
And I can’t even begin to express how lucky
This must be
A joyful reminder from serendipity
It is a gift to be alive and awake in this dream!