Memory as a wreath

Ah that poinsettia won't let go of memory.  It circles & encircles.  It wreaths memory.  Like needle does thread.  Like pen finishing off an "I."   Like spoon in and out of split pea soup.  Here memory has the hopeful tinge of pomegranate, don't you think?   Sheer abundance.

More life-gifting than Santa Claus

In the Mission District of San Francisco -- poinsettia.  Stop walking and listen to the story.  The man who is painting a small pink canvas in his driveway tells me the poinsettia was formerly the root above and migrated to a trunk next to to the original.  He's lived there for 29 years and it flowers every year about this time.  Walking is a banquet for the eyes and posies for the page.   Keep walking.  Keep looking down.  Keep looking up.  Keep a blank page & pen nearby.  

Poinsettia

Which Christmas was poinsettia free?

The answer is just like a blink poem.  None.
Always potted though.

On a usual walking route in San Francisco,  I unexpectedly spot a poinsettia bush.  Or is it a tree? That's like trying to discern the difference between a hearty soup & a stew.  Perhaps, discerning prose poetry & a poem.