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the Bougainvillea creep ...
tip-toe along the rough stonework
little woody tendrils of
life stretching for ... what?
I fear, to prove me not near as
hearty as they …
April's chill weep streaks
the glass doors,  each raindrop
hesitating as it trickles down ...
stops ... trickles again …
as if deciding on its next route
or waiting on approval from above
in no hurry, it seems
though the warming soil aches from
winter's negligence ..,
buds, pregnant with moisture
shivering in the brisk air
thorns tipped in waxy black oil
to warn away the uninvited
(ah, but I have my own dark thistles -
barbed and black-edged
ominous ... and dark)
soon the vines will be bursting
splashed in exuberant color
oh, few are adorned such as
these in their splendor
dressed in their Sunday best and
Easter bonnets
the very breath and bloom of
life, joyous …
each year more grand and
wondrous than the last
placed here by nature's grace for
me to adore -
to savor and study from
my quiet little corners of the day 
as it crawls ever closer to
the shade of the eaves
and I draw nearer to
my own shadows ...
my own silent, somber rest.








~ 5th Place ~  in the "Bougainvillea" Free Verse Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.

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