It is turtles and frogs that crawl around the rocks, quieter than the lazy stream beside them
It is inch-long caterpillars and the translucent leaves they punch holes in.

It is the light taste of avocados, smooth as cream and refreshing as air.
It is the softness of a freshly mowed lawn between your bare feet,
It is the crisp scent of mint in your tea.

It is the seaweed tangled around your legs as you sprint and fall face first into the waves.
It is the rivalry hanging in the air as you and your friend volley the tennis ball back and forth

It is the glow of emeralds in the darkness of hidden caves.
It is the pine tree sitting in your house, reassuring you that life and joy still exist, even in the barren month of December

I’m trying to conclude with a witty remark, find some clever line to end this
But it seems that even though I can write about it
I really don’t have the luck of the Irish.