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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s