White Clover

My boy sits among wild strawberries and clover,
brushes the leaf clusters curiously, plucks
white wildflowers and pops the blossoms
in his mouth, sucking what I can imagine
is sweetness bunnies crave. Morning
dew dampens his plump, strong legs that are beginning
to take him places without guidance, but never
without accompaniment. The breeze combs
his flaxen curls and the trefoil greens
deepen with each longer look of fascination.

Many say God is a Holy Trinity, three Persons
in One. The clover's thin petals form tunnels
to their centers; my child waves a complex flower
like a wand. Humbled, I wonder
how anyone could number the divine
People or Plants, Places or Possibilities,
or suppose the Creator is anything apart from
the Created, creating. Later, my son climbs
into my lap and falls quickly to sleep, sighs
in contended dreams, an earthy smell
on his breath, floral crown at his feet.