Fallen bougainvillea blossoms, like errant thoughts,
run in circles up and down the driveway.
They gather on the doorstep, the corners of the garage door
and hide under the rosemary.
Light as feathers, rough like dry leaves, they tumble in waves.
Their colors fade to pink echoes of a fiery past
when all energy was on living and being.
Silent, in those splendid days, they now have a voice:
murmurs bristle and rustle.
Herded by light gusts, they move aimlessly
on flagstone and sing as they go.
Some escape into the house, explore the kitchen,
slide on the tiles, then skirt the edge of a rug
and pause for breath.
A trio, stopped by a cross draft, changes direction
and takes an untraveled by-pass near a footstool.
They observe the cluttered desk
and rasp their disapproval as they move on.
But a fat one, faded, a bit mangled and tired,
decides to cling and stay there,
quietly reminiscing.
Others, shuffled by the wind,
find the pool and jump in to live their unlived life
as light pink spinnakers outrunning ripples.
Tiny, stable catamarans ply blue water
floating and twirling in pairs
to the music of the morning breeze…
They are too beautiful to dismiss,
their colors too subtle to ignore,
and too lively not to hear.
They still invite a touch, a tracing, an inquiry…
A desire rushes to preserve what they are right now,
in the late afternoon of their journey,
to find a purpose for all that wondrous abundance …
So I gather them, pile them in a tall vase
hoping to prolong the enchantment.
I hold them in cupped hands, skin on skin.
But nearly weightless, I can barely feel them.
Like air-kisses: an intention,
but the heart stays hungry…
I love them.
They thrill me.
They move me;
budding, in their full glory,
or in their last paper-thin whispers,
it doesn’t matter.
I want to finger and follow
the paths and patterns of their veins,
the color of their blood,
the graceful ebbing of burning pigments
into soft pastel shades.
I want to write on each petal ‘love always’
And I want to listen to their stories.
I want to hear the giggles and gossips…
So I open the doors wide,
let them roll in at will
at the mercy of the wind.
And I listen and walk among them
sharing their peace as I look for mine.
unbuttoned or undone 
This is a work of art.
You set a standard of naturalist poetry that few can aspire to.
Or, more accurately, you set a standard of poetry that few can aspire to.
I get more pleasure, by far, reading your images than any other.
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Now, I don’t know what to say besides thank you.
I am happy. You made my day.
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Truly wonderful writing
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Grateful for your praise D. Smiling.
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“Truly wonderful writing”
“This is a work of art.”
I cannot add to these comments, except to perhaps bring them together to say, “A truly wonderful work of art.”
Beautiful, Em.
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Thank you my friend. So glad you enjoyed and stick with me.
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So gorgeous.
All the love I feel for these flowers too and you have captured it, shifting through rooms, through phases of blossoming and falling…. wonderful.
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When the early blossoms come out full of deep orange and sienna, it’s hard to believe the crimson will take over before the wild, improbable electric pink explodes and nearly damages your eyeballs! That’s when it is Mexico and salsa dancing on the wall, climbing to the cerulean sky that takes your breath away.
I mean, Kat, what’s not to love? There is only room for love and gratitude.
I take pictures after pictures trying to catch the light and pigments… but.
I didn’t write it because it lacked a little something, but along with the scurrying flowers come dust, pine needles and their flowers gone to seed, and my dear Eros’ hair masquerading as tumble weeds… It’s a mess. but colorful and fun.
I clean up when it’s too much and when visitors are coming… decorum and what not, dontchanno ;-).
Thank you , i am so glad you we share this love.
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