Read the previous poem here.
I drift out around the edges.
In a little paper boat.
Made of newspaper, barely afloat.
The water washes over.
The boat dips and I see a clover.
Three leaves, not four.
Just on the edge of the shore.
Oh little paper boat why are you wavering.
As I sink my mind is havering.
Had I floated closer. closer to the edge.
I could have grabbed that clover from the hedge.
Used it as an ore.
An umbrella or even more.
Alas my paper boat has sunk.
But I can swim. Who’d have thunk.