THE WHIMSICAL LEPRECHAUN

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.

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