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After Christmas

By June Frankland Baker / January 4, 1993

Mother, the pointsettia you sent stands on the table before the window, its scarlet warm-hearted, the outside, January light glowing through the delicate flesh of its leaves as through stained glass. Of course, we live too far for your to come now - you will not see how your gift is held in that soft-woven basket whose rim curves over, about the pot, like the brim of a hat worn when walking with another, how its striped bow reflects the giving and receiving red and greens of the plant.

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