lift your head, little clover–
don’t you know the wind has gone?
its looming fingers can’t reach over
my palms cupped closer around. hold on
to what has always been so near.
resist! endure! your wind-whipped head
circles only imagined fear;
you’ve tried to lead, but look,
look, look, look,
it’s time to be led
we’re going to make it home.