On Leaving San Miguel

During the day, bougainvillea blossoms, fuscia fireworks on vines, drop from trees above the terrace outside my door, grace the stones below, like bright candies, tossed from some benevolent hand. Every morning, Leon, the gardener sweeps away the blossoms, rough scratch of twig broom on stone, makes the terrace clean, gray, smooth. I come home in cool-shadowed twilight. It's happened again, this offering of random fragile fuscia beauty blossoms, on the stones outside my door. '