By BRAD TROM
A flash of green on a day of grey,
When winter’s grip begins to fray.
The fiddle’s cry, a joyful sound,
On this day, no sorrow’s found.
A river runs a viridian hue,
Reflecting skies of hopeful blue.
The shamrock crest, a simple sign,
Of faith and luck, and passing time.
From Dublin’s streets to shores afar,
Beneath the same cold, morning star,
A spirit shared, a hearty cheer,
That echoes softly, year by year.
