I've never had a green thumb—only black,
To nurture plants? A skill I truly lack.
My family knows this; even so, they share
The little plants and blooms for which they care.
A shamrock made its way into my rooms—
A pretty plant with many sweet, small blooms,
And it was doing so well, I took it out
So it could thrive with other plants about.
It grew and flourished in our humble yard,
Drank dew and raindrops, some of which fell hard!
Yet shamrock bloomed, such tiny flow'rs of white
One could not gaze upon them and feel spite.
My guard was down, my black thumb loomed again...
A cold front came—a FROST—oh NO! And then,
'Twas too late for the shamrock. There she lay,
The leaves, the blooms, all frozen and asplay.
I bowed my head in shame, felt melancholy.
I'd done it yet again. Plant death: my folly.
But hope lived still within my sad, cold heart.
What if a bit of life might just restart?
I carried shamrock inside, let her warm,
Then watered her (a tad! no, not a storm!)
And left her sitting in a window's light.
I said a prayer: may she survive her blight.
And lo, within a few days, she lived on!
A tiny pale green shoot! Hurray! New dawn!
The God who made this fragile, lovely life
Was oh, so wise, and made it strong in strife.
