Yesterday Daragh brought me a tiny pot of shamrocks. Each three-leafed clover was frayed and glum, sallow at the edges. I felt the same, sodden down to the bones, into future lifetimes, not even desert nor hell could dry me. Today they have perked up considerably, basking in the sunlight. I notice that they're all facing the sun, and I remember: plants are always in motion, dancing imperceptibly throughout the day.