A good friend is like
a four leaf clover,
hard to find,
and lucky to have.

She was special.
Special to him.
He held on with slippery fingers.
He knew, someday, he would slip.
But he didn't know when,
so he hung on.

The storm was over.
There was silence.
He hoped it would end well.
She believed it would never end.
They were different.
But it was never a problem.

Dedicated to my dearest friend.