Little trinities: these
shamrocks that spread
beyond the backyard;
the small, touristy pot I picked up,
duty free in Dublin, got tipped
like the pub-crawler I was on rained-in roads,
and dispersed these immigrant seeds and peat
beyond the architecture I wanted, the sterile,
compressed wood and flora of this world.
Instead, they grow wild,
hugging the dime-size tree-frogs
that have startled us during plant watering.
How much these clovers blend with grass,
transfused like strange blood, lingering
with the wind for another song,
bellying up to the fence I cannot cross.