Image Credit: Unsplash- Lulu Lovering
Her mother told her to count her lucky clovers. Bury knees-deep in overgrowth of the four leaves, little hearts cusped together by stems. Weeds to many. Wonders to a mere few. She told her to carry them with her, press them in worn-bound books. To return to later— turn them into art, memories to last longer.
On sleepless nights, she told her to watch the fireflies uproot from the grasses. The twinkling glow mimicked starlight. Touching earth for the first time every sunrise. She told her to plant the seeds that the birds and bees cannot. To watch the aurora of colors flow from the moor, from the lilies blooming, burst.
And when her mother grew older, she told her to bury her amongst the wildflowers. She told her to count her lucky clovers, to bring the stars to shame in their splunder. On sleepless nights, she taught her how to turn herbs into remedies. How to give sugar to the hummingbirds— passing by for a lick of sweet nectar. She told her to carry the clovers with her; press them in worn-binded books. Make them last, forever.
This was written by our contributing writer, Claire Kroening.
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