I never scrounged the ground for a four-leaf clover
but lounged in the outfield, lacing daisy chains,
wistfully wishing no ball would plop my way.
But today I will stomp an icy mud puddle
and misspell my name: Cait catches my fancy.
The Atlantic rolls roughly on Carolina shores;
no swan touches down, only wind-braced sandpipers.
A darkroom at dusk, the beach is wet with clouds,
a dim black-and-white likeness of smoky puffs,
and my depression runs wild with joy
as the tide washes out, leaving silvery pools,
like footprints shimmering on burnt charcoal.
I take whiskey neat from a Kildare tumbler,
and my hazel eyes turn green—lucky me.
Catherine Hamrick is a copywriter in the greater Atlanta area. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, storySouth, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel: Appalachian Witness, The Ekphrastic Review, Sparks of Calliope, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. Find her online at https://randomstoryteller.com.