The whimsical leprechaun once wrote a poem that disappeared. Never to be seen again, he and it, was that way. Fleeting. Fleeting from theory, from observation, from conservation, from conversation. Trouble has it, he was a smoker. A smoker of two kinds. Firstly, there was his pipe. A pipe by which he blew all sorts of shapes and forms of billowing saw dust into the sky.
The second was his signal. He formed it from a pot. A pot that planted roots so deep, so colorful, no island could possibly possess them.
Thus, the whimsical leprechaun resolved himself to the activity of re-appearing only when the time was just right and like a rabbit in a hole, never missed a second.
In between, the unknown. Known to no one but himself and the tree within which he lived. It’s name: Grapefruit.