Jacaranda blossoms, like amethysts, brush the sapphire sky,

Flutter like purple confetti onto cars, and carpet the alleys.

Each blossom, a goblet waiting to be filled with wine

From which an angel will drink.

Bougainvillea blossoms, like a deep fuchsia fountain,

Cascade over thin, interwoven trunks.

The three pointed petals of each flower invite your gaze.

Their yellow stamens, like beckoning fingers,

Call butterflies to carry their pollen afar.

Within the month, the amethyst carpets will have vanished

And the fuchsia will lie strewn, like abandoned wings,

Across the Old City’s cobbled paths.

Within two months, the few clinging to their branches,

Dried, will turn the color of wheat,

And both jacaranda and bougainvillea

Will be forgotten for another year.