I'm looking, Clover.

Five years ago I bought this silly little clover from the grocery store in the neighborhood. It was in a cheezy little plastic cup for St. Patrick's Day, unlike most of south Boston on that holiday(in it's cup). We laughed together, we grew together, until lately. Clovers stretch towards the light and open their fan-like leaves in that direction. At night they fold their leaves down like patio-umberellas, holding vigil til morning. Back in CT when I lived in a little cottage by the shore I grew many things. Vegetables, herbs, perennials, annuals, complacent, houseplants and a very special purple clover. When I moved to LA I knew it wouldn't survive the trip, and I left my obvious favorite in the loving care of Sista Sal. I adopted a new clover in that memory. And now it dies.

We are on Cloverdeathwatch. There were twenty-odd stems, then ten, then five, then three and now one. The plant is tended with mineral rich water, optimum heat and light, conversation and pleasant music. These may be it's last moments in LA but they will be optimistic. I'm bitter as I hate to see plants die. It's a failure of sorts and I have a real problem with failure. Be with me as we watch new growth save the day, or the cold hand of nature smite my baby.