We were eleven, strolling past the park.
The grass was heavy, damp with the rain.
We saw the shimmering blades,
Resting on which, were those droplets of water.
And then we sat there, 10 meters apart;
Our backs to one other.
Searching in the meadow, a four-leaf clover.
Faces screwed in concentration, the sun shone tauntingly.
You let out a shout, calling me, that you found one.
Turning back, I saw you running towards me.
I smiled, and looked at your sweat stained face.
You put the clover, on my palm, delicately.
We ran back home, carrying our good luck with us.


© uponAstar