Bougainvillea

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.