Clover Leaf Quotes

I found it." "People find pennies," Gansey replied. "Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers." "And ravens," Ronan said. "You're just jealous 'cause" - at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts - "you didn't find one, too.

I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same fifty percent rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don't...Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe...same as the voodoo lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat's testicles. It's all the same...so just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself...

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

A good friend is like a four-leaf clover. Hard to find and lucky to have.

No cop was ever born who isn't a sucker for a finely-executed hi-speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those clover-leaf freeway interchanges. Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him... and then we will start apologizing begging for mercy. This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop-heart. The thing to dowhen you're running along about a hundred or so and you suddenly find a red-flashing CHP-tracker on your trail what you want to do then is accelerate.

I'm looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before.

Forgiveness is the four leafed clover of life.

The reason so many people never get anywhere in life is because when opportunity knocks, they are out in the backyard looking for four-leaf clovers.

The only time you don’t find a four-leaf clover,” he liked to say, “is when you stop looking for one.

Imagine if we were all magical leprechauns, and every wish ever made on a four-leaf clover obliged us to help others obtain their wishes. Now imagine if people simply lived like this were true.

There’s a guy at the other end of the bar who looks up at us just as I’m taking my seat, and I assume this is Harrison. He looks to be in his late twenties, with a head full of curly, red hair. The combination of his fair skin and the fact that there are four-leaf clovers on almost every sign in this place makes me wonder if he’s Irish or if he just wishes he were.

Ilse and I hunted all over the old orchard today for a four-leaved clover and couldn't find one. Then I found one in a clump of clover by the dairy steps tonight when I was straining the milk and never thinking of clovers. Cousin Jimmy says that is the way luck always comes, and it is no use to look for it.

I'm a Skeptic. And I'm a Journalist. I look up things in the library—a lot! I believe in the motto of Missouri, the 'Show-me, don't just blow me' state. I need evidence. I need demonstrations. I need show-and-tell. Even though I pray to God every once in a while, especially when I'm in trouble—which for most guys my age is every 28 days—I still think deeply about the issues and don't automatically jump to a religious or mystical answer to questions. I am, by nature, doubtful about the existence of God, and even whether He is a He or a Her. I don't believe in New Age stuff. For me, 'Past Life Regression' means not calling a girl after she gives me her phone number. Sure I own a lucky rabbit's foot, a lucky penny, a lucky 4-leaf clover and a lucky horeshoe [sic], and a pair of lucky underwear and several pairs of lucky socks that I only wash every seven days. But under it all I am a died–in-the-wool skeptic.

Story collectors tend to be superstitious. Knock on wood, black cats, four leaf clovers... that sort of thing. After all, superstitions are the little stories we tell ourselves to make sense of our chaotic world.

The Dream I Dream For You, My Child ... I hope you search for four-leaf clovers, grin back at Cheshire moons, breathe in the springtime breezes, and dance with summer loons. I hope you gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the buzzing firefly and rest beneath the sunlit trees as butterflies fly by. I hope you gather simple treasures of pebbles, twigs, and leaves and marvel at the fragile web the tiny spider weaves. I hope you read poetry and fairy tales and sing silly, made-up songs, and pretend to be a superhero righting this world's wrongs. I hope your days are filled with magic and your nights with happy dreams, and you grow up knowing that happiness is found in simple things. The dream I dream for you, my child, as you discover, learn, and grow, is that you find these simple joys wherever in life you go.

Matins You want to know how I spend my time? I walk the front lawn, pretending to be weeding. You ought to know I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact I'm looking for courage, for some evidence my life will change, though it takes forever, checking each clump for the symbolic leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already the leaves turning, always the sick trees going first, the dying turning brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform their curfew of music. You want to see my hands? As empty now as at the first note. Or was the point always to continue without a sign?

Her ambition was an extremely distressing condition. She sought power the way a superstitious man might look for a four-leaf clover.

When you make a wee wish on a green four-leafed clover, may your belly stay full and your cup runneth over.

When does a joke become a dad joke? When it becomes apparent. I, for one, like Roman numerals. Yesterday, a clown held a door open for me. I thought it was a nice jester. Why is it a bad idea to iron your four-leaf clover? Because you shouldn’t press your luck.

We were partners in sewing. And partners in luck-hunting: four-leaf clovers, sand-dollar birds, red sea glass, clouds shaped like hearts, the first daffodils of spring, ladybugs, ladies in oversized hats. Best to bet on all the horses, dear, she’d say. Quick, make a wish, she’d say. I bet. I wished. I was her disciple. I still am.

love is like a song a friend is like a four leaf clover it brings you luck

Irish luck, aye, that I’ve got. A four-leaf clover—aye, that too. I’ll tell ye, lassie, what I’ve not, A lucky Irish kiss from you!

—Hace mucho tiempo que me enamoré de ti. No tengo miedo de nada. Ni siquiera mis sentimientos por ti, dulce Aislinn

I went on a date last night and things went well. If you must know, I got lucky. I found a four-leaf clover.

What you have here is a unicorn eating four-leaf clovers while shitting rainbow turds in the shape of winning lottery numbers.

Literary talent is an accident of birth, like the ability to spot four-leaf clovers, and about as meaningful in the absence of hard work.

If you overvalue the uncommon, you spoil the uncommon and it begins to think of itself as something very precious! Don’t forget, a three-leaf clover is as valuable as the five-leaf-clover!

imagine that every now and then a book is picked up by a prestigious New York agent and sold to a prestigious New York publisher, but it is statistically akin to finding a four-leaf clover. On the banks of the Dead Sea. In July.

What makes a shamrock so special anyway?" One leaf for love, one leaf for hope, one leaf for faith, and one leaf for luck. The fourth leaf is a teeny bit smaller than the other three. That's how you know it's real... ...people have looked to clovers to ward off evil spirits.

When Alaska Young is sitting with her legs crossed in a brittle, periodically green clover patch leaning forward in search of four-leaf clovers, the pale skin of her sizable cleavage clearly visible, it is a plain fact of human physiology that it becomes impossible to join in her clover search.

A clover that sprouts four leaves, rather than three, is a mutation and is considered 'lucky' according to Irish mythology. Why? According to Celtic lore, each leaf of clover represents something special. One leaf represents faith, one hope, one love and, and , if a fourth leaf is present, that's luck.

Why do we wish on faraway stars? Because our desires seem out of reach. Why do we wish on four-leaf clovers? Because our desires seem hard to find. Why do we wish on coins tossed in founts? Because our desires seem worth the cost. Why do we pray our wishes to God? Because then our desires seem possible.

She reached up and rubbed the four-leaf clover charm, saying a quick prayer for faith, hope, love, and luck. Faith that everything would turn out, hope that what was lost could be restored, gratitude that she had found the love of the woman who had born her, and at the end she tacked on a heartfelt request for a little bit of luck to smooth out these next uncertain, scary steps.

Her insanely high Christian Louboutin stilettos made a click-clacking sound on the airport floor. Amber rolled a small Louis Vuitton luggage bag behind her. She wore a baby-blue Chanel skirt suit, which made her look like an elegant celebrity. Her hair was long and blond today and pinned up into a perfectly smooth up-do. A pair of gold earrings in the shape of four-leaf clovers and a matching pendant completed the outfit.

You don’t believe in leprechauns. A myth you say they be. You don’t believe in pots-o-gold, or four-leaf-clover tea. You don’t believe the rainbow’s end alights on treasured finds. They are illusions meant for fools you say ‘ave lost their minds. You don’t believe in whispering your wishes to the wind, where on St. Patrick’s holiday they blow t’wards Ireland. You don’t believe in magic spells or longings coming true. Yet, head-to-toe you dress in green on Patty’s Day, you do.

Fourth avenue was a red dog road. Red dog is burned out trash coal. If the coal had too much slate, it was piled in a slag heap and burned. The coal burned up, but the slate didn't The heat turned it every shade of red and orange and lavender you could imagine. When the red on our road got buried under rutted dirt or mud, dump trucks would pour new loads of the sharp-edged rock. My best friend Sissy and I followed along after the truck, looking for fossils. We found ferns and shells and snails, and once I found a perfect imprint of a four-leaf clover.

A Storm In April" Some winters, taking leave, Deal us a last, hard blow, Salting the ground like Carthage Before they will go. But the bright, milling snow Which throngs the air today— It is a way of leaving So as to stay. The light flakes do not weigh The willows down, but sift Through the white catkins, loose As petal-drift Or in an up-draft lift And glitter at a height, Dazzling as summer’s leaf-stir Chinked with light. This storm, if I am right, Will not be wholly over Till green fields, here and there, Turn white with clover, And through chill air the puffs of milkweed hover.

They Harry Potters still enormously outnumber the likes of Petunia and Vernon Dursley in society, who just don't hold with such nonsense, perhaps reflecting how modern life seems more out of control than ever. Most people do indeed believe in magic of one sort or another, whether the thespian who shouts "break a leg" at a colleague, the student who always wears the same outfit for exams, the blushing bride who crosses her fingers for good luck or those who jump with joy when they find a four-leaf clover. Why is our belief in magic so deeply ingrained? Indeed, why do we believe in anything at all?

You want to know how I spend my time? I walk the front lawn, pretending to be weeding. You ought to know I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact I'm looking for courage, for some evidence my life will change, though it takes forever, checking each clump for the symbolic leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already the leaves turning, always the sick trees going first, the dying turning brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform their curfew of music. You want to see my hands? As empty now as at the first note. Or was the point always to continue without a sign?

This is what we call a shamrock. It has three leaves. Do you know what it represents?" "Luck? Amelia answered. Lee smiled. "That's what everyone says." Rick shrugged. "Well, I know it's Ireland's emblem." Lee shook his head and said earnestly, "It's much more than that. It represents our religion... who we are. When St. Patrick was trying to teach Christianity here in Ireland, he used this shamrock as an example." Lee pointed to each leaf and said, "This is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost...." Rick still held the clover in his hand. He looked at it and twirled it between his fingers as he said, "I'm calling this the Shamrock Case from now on. I love what it represents.

From the pleasure podium of Ali Qapu, beyond the enhanced enclosure, the city spread itself towards the horizon. Ugly buildings are prohibited in Esfahan. They go to Tehran or stay in Mashhad. Planters vie with planners to outnumber buildings with trees. Attracting nightingales, blackbirds and orioles is considered as important as attracting people. Maples line the canals, reaching towards each other with branches linked. Beneath them, people meander, stroll and promenade. The Safavids' high standards generated a kind of architectural pole-vaulting competition in which beauty is the bar, and ever since the Persians have been imbuing the most mundane objects with design. Turquoise tiles ennoble even power stations. In the meadow in the middle of Naghshe Jahan, as lovers strolled or rode in horse-drawn traps, I lay on my back picking four-leafed clovers and looking at the sky. There was an intimacy about its grandeur, like having someone famous in your family. The life of centuries past was more alive here than anywhere else, its physical dimensions unchanged. Even the brutal mountains, folded in light and shadows beyond the square, stood back in awe of it. At three o'clock, the tiled domes soaked up the sunshine, transforming its invisible colours to their own hue, and the gushing fountains ventilated the breeze and passed it on to grateful Esfahanis. But above all was the soaring sky, captured by this snare of arches.(p378)

Cilantro: eat half a cup a day of this herb as-is, sprinkled on salads, or in a smoothie. Parsley: eat a quarter cup a day of this herb as-is, sprinkled on salads, or in a smoothie. Zeolite: buy this mineralized clay in liquid form. Spirulina (preferably from Hawaii): if it’s in powder form (which is best for removal of metals from the gut), mix one teaspoon daily into water or a smoothie. Garlic: eat two fresh cloves a day. Sage: eat two tablespoons a day. L-glutamine: if it’s in powder form (which is preferable for removal of metals from the gut), mix one teaspoon daily into water or a smoothie. Plantain leaf: brew this herb to make tea and drink a cup a day. Red clover blossom: brew two tablespoons of these flower blossoms to make two cups of tea a day.

But how did proteins make physiological reactions possible? Hemoglobin, the oxygen carrier in blood, for instance, performs one of the simplest and yet most vital reactions in physiology. When exposed to high levels of oxygen, hemoglobin binds oxygen. Relocated to a site with low oxygen levels, it willingly releases the bound oxygen. This property allows hemoglobin to shuttle oxygen from the lung to the heart and the brain. But what feature of hemoglobin allows it to act as such an effective molecular shuttle? The answer lies in the structure of the molecule. Hemoglobin A, the most intensively studied version of the molecule, is shaped like a four-leaf clover. Two of its “leaves” are formed by a protein called alpha-globin; the other two are created by a related protein, beta-globin.II Each of these leaves clasps, at its center, an iron-containing chemical named heme that can bind oxygen—a reaction distantly akin to a controlled form of rusting. Once all the oxygen molecules have been loaded onto heme, the four leaves of hemoglobin tighten around the oxygen like a saddle clasp. When unloading oxygen, the same saddle-clasp mechanism loosens. The unbinding of one molecule of oxygen coordinately relaxes all the other clasps, like the crucial pin-piece pulled out from a child’s puzzle. The four leaves of the clover now twist open, and hemoglobin yields its cargo of oxygen. The controlled binding and unbinding of iron and oxygen—the cyclical rusting and unrusting of blood—allows effective oxygen delivery into tissues. Hemoglobin allows blood to carry seventyfold more oxygen than what could be dissolved in liquid blood alone. The body plans of vertebrates depend on this property: if hemoglobin’s capacity to deliver oxygen to distant sites was disrupted, our bodies would be forced to be small and cold. We might wake up and find ourselves transformed into insects.

Toward the end of her life a burglar broke into her house and pistol-whipped her. She was an elderly woman by then, and it sent her into a downward spiral. When she was in the hospital dying, I called, and she asked me not to come and see her; she wanted me to remember her as she was. I felt I had to honor her request. As we talked, she told me she was wearing the four-leaf clover necklace I had given her. Barbara [Stanwyck] was cremated wearing it, and her ashes were scattered over Lone Pine. The fact that a piece of me remained with her at the end was and is some consolation for her loss.

I love tattoos on women,” said Henry. “Although the last one I saw was on Sally Mae, a friend of mine at the nursing home. Her tattoo was supposed to be a clover-leaf, but damn if it didn’t look more like a beanstalk. Course, the thing must have grown over fifty years.” Tiny laughed and started the engine. Paige rubbed her forehead. “God, I’m not going to even ask where that was located.

Methylation works by the use of a chemical compound, in the shape of three-leaf clovers made up of hydrogen and carbon,

Preconception Nourishing Infusion 1/3 cup dried red clover 1/3 cup dried red raspberry leaf 1/3 cup dried stinging nettle leaves Place all the herbs in a quart jar and pour boiling water up to the rim of the jar. Cover and let steep for at least 4 hours or overnight. Strain herbs and add honey or sweetener of choice. You may need to reheat the mixture in order for the sweetener to dissolve properly. Drink daily.

Silver Revolver old lover, old lover pass the silver, silver revolver old lover, old lover pull the trigger, pull the trigger you let me die hey mama, oh mama i found a never?, a four leaf clover stormy weather, stormy weather inside a fire, friends will ? inside i die it's all in my head all i've ever been to myself is my own enemy oh lover, oh lover pass the silver, silver revolver, yeah it's all in my head it's in my all i've ever been to myself is my own enemy

Four-leaf Clover: a Miracle, Mutation, or Happy Accident?

And since when did being injured mean I’d found a four leaf clover?

Like most people, I started with baby steps—making simple intentions like securing up-front parking spots, finding four-leaf clovers,

He remembered something his grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen. Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf clovers.

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

At first she felt overwhelmed by the house, its airy symmetry its silence. Now she was accustomed to the place, but she caught herself wondering, Is this still Berkeley? George's neighborhood felt as far from Telegraph as the hanging gardens of Babylon. You could get a good kebab in Jess's neighborhood, and a Cal T-shirt, and a reproduction NO HIPPIES ALLOWED sign. Where George lived, you could not get anything unless you drove down from the hills. Then you could buy art glass, and temple bells, and burled-wood jewelry boxes, and dresses of hand-painted silk, and you could eat at Chez Panisse, or sip coffee at the authentically grubby French Hotel where your barista took a bent paper clip and drew cats or four-leaf clovers or nudes in your espresso foam. You returned home with organic, free-range groceries, and bouquets of ivory roses and pale green hydrangeas, and you held dinner parties where some guests got lost and arrived late, and others gave up searching for you in the fog. That was George's Berkeley, and even in these environs, his home stood apart, hidden, grand, and rambling; windows set like jewels in their carved frames, gables twined with wisteria of periwinkle and ghostly white.

!” “Wow,” Miles said in mock sincerity. “That really does sound like a good part!” Daisy kicked him playfully in the shin. “C’mon,” Logan said, taking Miles by the arm. “Let’s let her read in peace. We only have a few minutes.” Miles made a big show of rubbing his shin as they left. Logan led the way to the far corner of the field, where the milkweed, clover, and marigolds grew. He tiptoed to the white clover bush and knelt in front of it. “He’s still there,” Logan whispered, pointing to the underside of a leaf. The caterpillar’s chrysalis hung by the thinnest of threads, like a silver strand of spun sugar. Logan had rigged up a temporary shelter for it out of some twigs and gauze. That way, if it rained or a big wind kicked up, it should be protected. He tested the twigs to make sure they were still sturdy, then took out his pencil and notebook, flipping quickly to the chart on the last page. He wanted to make sure Miles didn’t see his drawings. Not because they were bad—he freely admitted they were—but because most of them

But that four-leafed clover hadn't brought any luck either to this soldier or to me. He was a man, too, like me, or like Mr. Hubicka, like us he hadn't any distinction or rank, and yet we had shot each other and brought each other to death, although surely if we could have met somewhere in civil life we might well have liked each other, and found a lot to talk about. And then the explosion rang out. And I, who only a little while before had been looking forward to the sight, lay there beside the German soldier, stretched out my hand and opened his stiffening fingers, and put into them the green four-leaved clover that brings luck, while from somewhere away there in the countryside a mushroom cloud soared into the sky, endlessly expanding into greater heights and vaster smoky masses. I heard the pressure of the air rush across the countryside and hiss and whistle through the bare branches of the trees and bushes, I heard it rattle the transfer chains on the signal, and lean on the arm and shake it; but I lay coughing, and felt my blood draining out of me. To the last moment, before I began to lose the awareness of myself, I held this dead man by the hand, and for his unhearing ears I repeated the words of the chief of that mail train which had brought those wretched Germans from Dresden: 'You should have sat at home on your arse...

Until then, wishing you bouquets of four-leaf clovers and double rainbows.

He starts to turn away, then stops, scratching at his beard, considering something, before bending low in the grass and plucking something from the soil. He holds it out in his palm. "Good luck, giant," he says, nodding. In his palm rests a tiny green leaf. "It's a four-leaf clover," he explains with a wink. "And one that's been plucked from inside St. Patrick Town is particularly lucky." I take the green clover from his palm and hold it up to the clouded sky, marveling at its four perfectly rounded leaves. It smells of soil and rain, resting delicately between my fingertips. And it looks just like the clover on the doorway into this realm. "Thank you," I say to him, but when I glance up, he's already vanished into the thick green spruce trees and falling raindrops.

I stir the simmering potion until it turns a bright, gruesome red, the same shade as Ruby Valentino's lips. But it's too bright, too obvious. Then I remember. I reach into the pocket of my dress, past the spool of thread, to the thing I'm looking for. When I pull it out, the leaves are slightly flattened, but it's still intact: the four-leaf clover given to me by the leprechaun in St. Patrick Town. He said it would bring me luck. And I need it now. I drop the green clover into the potion, and within seconds, the color turns a vibrant, grassy green--reminding me of the damp meadow in St. Patrick Town, freshly dewed with rain. The exact shade I need.

A good friend is like a four-leaf clover…’” “‘Hard to find and lucky to have,

She doesn't think about that as she walks back to town through the yellow-leafed streets with their autumn smells and silences. Past Clover Point, the cliffs crowned with broom brushes, the mountains across the water. The mountains of the Olympic Peninsula, assembled like a blatant backdrop, a cutout of rainbow tissue paper. She doesn't think about Raymond, or Miles, or Maya, or even Ben. She thinks about sitting in the store in the evenings. The light in the street, the complicated reflections in the windows. The accidental clarity.

What would have happened, I wondered, if Clover and Jotter never ran the river—if they had listened to the critics and doomsayers, or to their own doubts? They brought knowledge, energy, and passion to their botanical work, but also a new perspective. Before them, men had gone down the Colorado to sketch dams, plot railroads, dig gold, and daydream little Swiss chalets stuck up on the cliffs. They saw the river for what it could be, harnessed for human use. Clover and Jotter saw it as it was, a living system made up of flower, leaf, and thorn, lovely in its fierceness, worthy of study for its own sake. They knew every saltbush twig and stickery cactus was, in its own way, as much a marvel as Boulder Dam—shaped to survive against all the odds. In the United States, half of all bachelor’s degrees in science, engineering, and mathematics go to women, yet these women go on to earn only 74 percent of a man’s salary in those fields. A recent study found that it will be another two decades before women and men publish papers at equal rates in the field of botany, a field traditionally welcoming to women. It may take four decades for chemistry, and three centuries for physics. Stereotypes linger of scientists as white-coated, wild-haired men, and they limit the ways in which young people envision their futures. In a famous, oft-replicated study, 70 percent of six-year-old girls, asked to draw a picture of a scientist, draw a woman, but only 25 percent do so at the age of sixteen.

Instinctively, her fingers drifted to the four-leaf clover charm on the delicate chain at her throat, and she rubbed the little leaves. Long ago, her mother had told her that the four leaflets on the clover stood for faith, hope, love, and luck. "Those four elements are the recipe for a charmed life, Georgia May," her mother had promised her.

Who needs a strategy when you can rely on luck and a four-leaf clover?

You were the seed and the leaf and the fruit. You were the earth and you were the root. You were the song in the echoing dark. You were not the snake. You were never the rock. You were the needle and bark, and you were the river. You were not winter. You were fresh water. You were not locked door or slammed door or rattle. You were not metal. You were not empty bottle. You were treetop and grassland and night sky and star. Oh you were warm, you were rain, you were air. You were the oak leaf and honey and clover and you were forest and you were my mother. You were the shore where no crocodiles are. You were not wire. You were not wire. - Monkey Writes a Poem About His Mother

Maybe it was the smell of spring in the air; the field of four-leaf clovers we pass. Red roses against a fence. Leather seats and Josh’s skin.

No solo porque había captado mi interés, sino porque era una Killeen.

Mi idea de un buen matrimonio implicaba más que sexo satisfactorio, pero para alcanzar el nivel de confianza requerido para tal vínculo, ambas partes debían estar dispuestas a dejarse caer. Prefería tirar a la gente a los pozos.

Al ver las miradas lujuriosas de las chicas a mi alrededor, sentí una pizca de celos que me tomó por sorpresa. Lorcan dijo que no tendría que compartirlo, y ahora me di cuenta de que definitivamente no quería hacerlo.

Sabía que la vida seguiría arrojándonos desafíos, pero Lorcan, Finn y yo los manejaríamos juntos.

When opportunity knocks, some people are in the backyard looking for four-leaf clovers. Polish Proverb

Her da had given her a four-leaf clover, dried between the pages of a book, when she was four years old.

Four-leaf clovers," she said. "I've been finding them everywhere, in the oddest places." Star stepped out of the garden bed and gently plucked the clover from Georgia's hand, pinching it between her fingers. "Well, look at that," she said softly. She glanced at Georgia. "My grandma Emma was Irish, raised near Galway---that's where our red hair comes from--- and she loved four-leaf clovers. Always felt they connected her with the country of her birth.

What are you trying to tell me?" she repeated, picking up the little clover stem from the edge of her plate and twirling it between her fingers. She thought of what Star had told her about her gift, that she brought clarity to people with her cooking. Would it work for her? Could she bring clarity to her own heart? On impulse, she pulled off the four leaves of the clover and sprinkled them over the omelet. Why not give it a try? Clover was edible, with a slightly lemony flavor. Not a terribly appealing plant to eat, but tolerable in small quantities. "Today I ask for faith, hope, love, and luck," she whispered, not at all sure this was going to work. "Please show me what I need to see." As she spoke the words, she realized she was not petitioning Julia but speaking to the island, to the Stevens women--- Star and Emma and Helen--- and to her own heart. She didn't know who or what was sending her these signs in the form of four-leaf clovers. Perhaps it was the island as Star suspected, or the universe, or Emma and Helen. The origin was a mystery, and in a way, the source didn't really matter. She just wanted to know what it all meant. What were the four-leaf clovers trying to reveal to her?

Don’t look so hard, love,” my grandfather said. “If you train your eyes to see the beauty in difference, it’s everywhere. It’s right under your nose. If you look at the world with a closed mind, all you’ll see are limitations.