The Bougainvillea In Autumn Poem by Rumpa Das

All through the autumn, it waited patiently.
The bougainvillea at my gate, now aged, a bit frail perhaps.
And I waited, with bated breath, to catch her in its glory.
I couldn't give up on her, even though, I knew it was struggling.
Bare branches, stripped of flowers in the downpour,
Cold stares from the gardener, merciless with his sickle -
Sent signals to the shrub, pale, almost leafless, shrivelled.
Rise up, chin up, I whispered.
You were the one who lit up my small garden
With an abundance of vermillion blossoms,
The only of its kind in our neighbourhood.
Rise up, dear tree, you signalled hope and pride and joy.

All through the hibernating months,
I cooed to its skeletal frame,
Caressed it with my thoughts,
I, who like her, had lost the vermillion glow
That once lit me up.
Yet if I can rise, phoenix-like, out of my own embers
Why don't you bloom forth, do what you have to do?
The desire to shine, the desire to smile, was so much you.

As cool winds started blowing,
Mornings and evenings brought in sudden shivers,
Mists covered my garden - space.
My dear bougainvillea raised itself from its stupor.
At first a single brave speck, and then another accompanist,
and then a surge of bold orange-red lumps
Bathed my humble gate in all the regal glory
Only a bougainvillea can flaunt.
And as I watch how butterflies make merry on the crimson feast,
I realise how in life sometimes,
What matters is how we trust time
to bring out the best in us and all that we ever want.