Sunburnt Mirth.

There is something that warms the heart about Bougainvilleas, especially when in full bloom, and even more so in a sunny day against a white backdrop.

With their bright color and need of hot sunlight, they unerringly bring Keats to mind when he sighed after a Nightingale and called:

           O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of Flora and the country green, dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

Exactly what I feel when looking at Bougainvilleas.

I’m trying to grow one in the tiny window box in my tiny apartment and, until now, she (because it is a she, I’ve decided, thorny and prickly and grim at times, yet warm and full of color and needlessly dramatic when sweetly coaxed by Spring) has been cooperating; there are plenty of shiny, green leaves, though no flowers in sight yet.


I already have a draught of vintage cooling for when they appear.



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