Bougainvillea

I found you on such a simple day and in such a simple way.  Walking through the garden you were there among all the other flowers.  I was used to seeing them, used to talking to them, but with you I wasn't sure how to approach.  Then I just did. I came by and introduced myself suddenly to you and it took you by storm.  Isn't it curious that I'm filled with the same doubts and the same fears as when I first crossed your path?

Do you need sunshine or do you need rain?  I could give your roots so much to drink, give your petals so much sun to strive towards.  Would you mind if I shared with you some sweet words, or would I only disturb your tranquility? And tranquility is so hard to come by in these gardens, they're so close to the city.  When I see bad spots infesting your stem, would you care for my pruning, or are my sheers too sharp for such a delicate bougainvillea.  Could I visit you every morning with jolly and cheer, or would that undermine the hard work you put in each day to grow? Could I beg you to consider seeing the lot of land I'm cultivating, or have you already settled on this being the greenest of pastures here?

Maybe I should just wait. Eventually you'll have to give me a sign, we all thirst for something, there's got to be something I can do for you, got to be something I can do to show you I can be trusted. I know I'm a stranger and trust needs observation, but I just don't want to give you something you don't even need.  There's gotta be something you'ld want from only me. All the other potters know just what to do, and normally so do I.  But you, you're not just some bushflower, you're the bougainvillea that shines so brightly you paint my iris from brown to rose.

When we met, just as today, I have fewer answers than I do questions.  As there is only one answer.