What is bougainvillea? And what is it to me?
The poets always speak of it in terms of Then, and We:
We upon the beach, we and then the smell
Of bougainvillea, sweaty sheets, lost love, the ocean’s swell.
Do all those poets linger there, where perfumes mingle gin,
Adultery and shrubbery and guilty love within?
We mostly come from other states where, largely, lilacs grow.
It’s hard to be a floral sort living eight months in the snow.
How ‘bout good old roses? Or the long-awaited scent
Of bleached and sun-soaked sheets on their first bright spring event?
Climbing in those sheets means a rare and joyous lark
To those who have been married some and need a little spark
Of sunlight, hope and fragrance to end the long and wintry dark
Where tropic flowers do not grow and kids get so-so marks.
I can’t picture bougainvillea, not where we live, we’ve got views
Of lawns where flowers never grow and children always do.
You got that plant? I want it.
My landscape’s getting sparse.
I’ll sniff it if you want me to—
I’ll meet you in the park.
