IMAGES that stick in my mind's eye like band aids for wounds of old times and past tense.
One. A four-leaf clover, a rare joy sought by so many, acquired by so few. Only with a leaf fallen off again, turning it back into a normal, little weed.
How they used to croon and drool words, words of greedy passion for that thing they called luck. For that abstract little golden vial of something that they thought a couple of leaves could encompass or at the very least represent, in order to reassure them, a mother hen clucking foolishly to her chicks that everything would be okay if they stood hidden under her wing out of sight of the predator circling overhead.
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