What pact made with devilish delight
Keeps you rosy, the color of complication,
Thriving, even in bitter times,
When all senses dictate,
Time has stilled.
Have you not noticed the month?
You, fertile like a California growing field,
Redder than a pigeon blood ruby,
Last night, I saw you in my sleep,
Recoil from fate.
Adorned in crimson promises,
You blossomed into a tree,
While I embraced the alchemy
That created you,
Curious, abandoned on the terrace.
About this poem:
The holidays were gone and winter was still in full force. Yet, mysteriously, my Christmas Poinsettia remained strong, battling, if not thriving, in the cold on the courtyard. I don’t know why, but it made me feel hopeful.
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