25/365

the bougainvillea I bought
with my mother
had a great bloom:
when the rain wouldn't stop in December—
and the hard glare of the sun
was replaced by torrential storms
and heavy grey days.
    
            but now
the pink flower leaves
are scattered on the porch
like the exoskeletons of a swarm of insects
wone with metamorphosis.

soon the thin branches will be bare again
littered with thorns

i’ll tell myself
to buy a bigger pot
    and new dirt
    and learn more about Ph balance
    and add vinegar to the soil
    or some shit like that,
but I won’t.

I’ll just turn it a different direction
prune the leftover nubs
and wait for another bloom
in some unpredictable future.

i wonder if the lessons in this poem
are more clear to you than they are for me.

i had a better one planned
on the way to school,
but wasn't able to capture it.

this one will have to do.