Was out in the meadow picking three-leaf clovers, as easily as scheduling friends for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I gathered them in the palm of my hand, abundant overflowing greens, but felt that something was missing, as if a fragile wing had been torn from every clover. I am looking for that last teardrop leaf that seems to be missing in my life; these friends only surround me in good times but abandon me to the winds when from the fun and laughter I stray. The last leaf never grew, the leaf that signified promise and commitment through heavy sobs and wet eyes. There is a yawning gape where your empty promises lie and and that is what prevents me from the luck and happiness I should have in this life.