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78 CHRISTMAS CACTUS It thrives on darkness and the year’s old age. In spring it squats upon the sill, a sullen plant of stubborn rage, with spiky leaves that lack all force of will. The solstice nears, and in its showers of light, floods of color flourish, gaudy, loud, all living things obediently bright: the cactus’ grim refusal is a shroud. December’s shadows spread like mud. The cactus gulps the gloom, it eats the night, erupts in rushed profusion, flowers like blood. It teaches me to feed on dark’s delight. Then like a Christmas cactus shall I flare: last-minute blood-red blooms against despair. ...

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