Far Country 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. Bill Dubie |