I'm looking, Clover. Part 5.

Horrors upon horrors. I was teased with new growth only to be denied joy. As I carefully administered an inse (inse is less than a scotche) to the pot, the sprout washed away from the torrent like a palm tree in a tsunami. My merry little tune that I hummed as I was watering quickly became a keening death-cry of old. My baby, my baby!!! Even now, the proud bough of the final frond collapses under it's weight. My shamrock will be dead by St. Patty's Day, what's the irony in that?