ODE TO AN ERRANT BOUGAINVILLEA

Waving wildly in the wind,
Thrusting thorn-laced branches in
The path of one who came to find
A secret known to few.

Not petals here that loudly call
And wrap around what's very small.
Within those three-part brackets hide
True flowers deep inside.

Magenta clusters call me near
To scentless beauty I don't fear
Unless these boughs begin to dance
To rhythms I can't hear.

Go flail your arms and make a racket,
Boast the beauty in your brackets,
Catch me once more and I'll hack it
Right down to the ground!

A gardner knows to trim and groom,
That wild things can't have all the room.
But train? Contain? This plant, not ever!
With threats to prune...it blooms.

Karen Jacobs, 1993