The bougainvillea

Bright flowers

Sharp thorns

No scent

Rather flamboyant

Rambling out my front door

It is the first thing I see of a morning

Protecting little birds

In the depths of it’s not a tree shrubbery

It does what it wants

Roams freely

Highly resilient

Can’t be insulted

I could stand there for an hour yelling

And it would wave its fronds in the breeze


It makes me smile

Just to think of how stupid hurling an opinion at a bush would be

That bougainvillea reminds me

In its silent beautiful voice

It’s simple lack of choice



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