A Walk On Saint Paddy's Day

 

Chickadee drippings on green cabbage stone,
vinegar fog so cold to the bone,
 
vintage poured from daffodils, 
"Slainte!" to wind-drizzled hills.
 
Raise a tulip cup, toast the plum
bound in its bud, still scentless and dumb.
 
Batter the cherry, the loam-loaf knead,
sweetened with drops of meadow mead.
 
Leavened by what makes peepers sing,
dollop your eyes on the littlest thing.
Feasting on crumbs, keep walking alone.


Note: "Slainte," pronounced "slan-cha," is the ancient Irish toast.

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