A four-leaf-clover came out of hiding

as I bee-lined for my hiding place

on Funeral Hill.  All summer, a carpet

waited for me to add the simple stitch

that made it mine. Thread lemon-lime.

No sting, just a tickle.  Butterlies flew

the rug down, I decided.  As they spread

it, their wings dropped black and yellow

clues.  Only little ones.   Helped

that the hill hid the scary, blue-lit Home

with its curtained hearse down to one side.

I took off my shoes and let my feet climb

their way.  Leftover rain put out the fire

from a walk people said could fry eggs.

Smoooooth up here.  Elves must have danced.

Then they pirouetted green to the trees

and embroidered them to match.  My knees

got tickled by dandelion windmills and blue

mirroring flowers too little to hold up

a red ant.  Sun buttered a cloud and sang

that it was good to reach.  I did.

Then I took the clover out of my pocket,

kissed it, and laid it to rest.

Fire-engine-red wagon littered with tinsel

and needles instead of the asked-for easel

and paints.  Santa groaning he had forked

blood.   No Boy of Mine, so on, so forth.

I traded for a bike with a basket and neon

stripe.  Chain busted. Busted, too,

I took off.  In no time, was sweating

up the hill ghosts were greening.  Ghoul blue

glow-wormed Funeral Home Spooked,

I scooted around to the other side.  Fell

in a heap, ended up dreaming the bike

fixed itself.  I was winning the last race

when I started itching like fire.  Oh, no.

Only hope they’re scared I got kidnapped.

Run over, something. Devil’s food

in the fridge.  Get it instead of his strop?

Right. Top with blisters and a rash.

Young heal fast.  I was soon climbing

back up the hill, beat-up army blanket

dragging behind.  Pockets about to split,

so full of questions for the dead.