The Bougainvillea Tree

It stood on the other side of the wall rooted firmly for the white bougainvillea tree did not belong to me Wondered why it always branched this side paving my walkway with blooms of white While I patiently waited for my rose bush to flower it nonchalantly continued its year-long showers Unbothered unfettered by the gardener’s reaper, it grew in every direction, old branches shooting off the new Assiduously each day I tried to broom them away but they, like a mother’s kisses were always there Falling softly like advices from an old friend they were fragile, paper-white, yet persistent With gentle breeze they glide to me be it summer rain or spring Innumerable, countless like God’s many blessings.