What happened to the fourth leaf?
Was it eaten?
Squished in the hand of a tyrant?
Blown away by the blind storm?
The storm was selective with its hand
Weaving destruction delicately with a soothing aftermath
No one thought to check on the old schoolteacher
Or the silver-haired man rocking his life away
Not even the hunched over patron of the river
A rising tide
Obscured a sky splitting into a thousand pieces
And the merciless theft of a clover’s fourth leaf
Nature crafts a web of sorts
Deal with it