The poinsettia's red leaves
wilt and drop. It becomes
a spindly green weed,
the last reminder, after
ornaments are packed away,
when the season turns
brown and white beyond
window panes. Red now
is the color of blood
and stop signs,
the few pale crab apples
yet to be eaten by dark birds
that drop down from the sky
then vanish on a cold gust of wind.
I keep red as a color
in my back pocket, too bold
for this day, something to wear
later, when I need to be reminded
that gifts wrapped and hidden
raise blood's rush to deepen
skin's pale winter echo
from a summer long past.
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