Each one has four leaves,
shaped like tiny hearts,
one for each of our children.
Discovered by my husband
wherever we wandered—
every yard, every meadow,
every hill, every country.
No matter where we went,
he would look down,
lean over, then rise
and present me with
the clover and a kiss.
I could look for hours				
and never spot one,
but his dark eyes, drawn
to the shape as if 
it held a magnet,
found one instantly.
I saved so many of them,
now faded almost white,
ironed together
between wax paper,
then cut into the shape
of a bookmark, marking
special poems in books
that touched our hearts.
They say that Eve plucked 
a four-leaf clover on her way
out of Eden as a souvenir, 
which it is to me as well.
He’s been gone for many years,
claiming on his deathbed to be
the luckiest man who ever lived,
and our house and our books
retain evidence of his good fortune.