The simple things.

The simple life.

Can we buy one? Can we give it time?

The yard is sunny, on top of a hill. I’m amazed.

Don’t worry, the sun makes heat.

The little flowers that need shade will not thrive here.

The deep pink gash, thrash, stainless beauty of the bougainvillea will

    survive

Bloom and rebloom all year. Thorns along the side.

The petals fall onto the kelly-green grass, into the clear clean glass-green

    water of the pool onto

the warm cement. Lie down there. And the wind

throws the petals all through the air.

They turn pink-to-brown under the rake.

Maybe you were alive someplace, in the East.

But this is not the East. Don’t bring it around here.