First Spring

Every day, leaving my house, I find
a pile of crisp bougainvillea petals,
which are not actually petals but bracts,
modified leaves, leaves upon leaving,
it feels cruel to brush them away.
Winter came and went without a fight,
this sudden warmth an imposition.
I think about the end of things,
lifespans and impossible overlaps,
springs you will never see, jasmines
like corpses on the sidewalk,
the old man sweeping away.
How to hold such finalities?
Some things I don’t like to ask,
like where you went and why–
some things I don’t care to know.
Lately, the songbirds have been singing
deep into my nights, urgent, scattered cries.
Unlike you, they are still here in the mornings.
I can fit three of them in my palm.