Mother, the pointsettia you sent
stands on our 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 you 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
reds and greens of the plant.