Uploaded on December 5, 2011
Mamma had chosen red threads.
There was blue, yellow and green.
The blanket on the loom
Was the loveliest Lucida had seen.
It would cover Baby Jesus
And protect Him from the cold.
But Lucida ruined all, trying to help.
It was too hard for a ten-year-old.
Mamma had fallen ill.
Papa never left her side.
Lucida cried as she left the house.
She ran to the woods to hide.
Who was that beautiful Lady?
Why did she smile at the child?
How’d she know Mamma would live?
Why was she here in the wild?
“Dear Lucida — yes, I know your name.
“Don’t be afraid to open the door.
“Gather those weeds for the Babe.
“Bring them to church; lay them on the floor.”
Lucida’s arrival caused quite a stir.
How could she offer those weeds?
Why didn’t the girl know any better?
Tongues wagged as fingers moved over beads.
Lucida heard not a sound.
Her eyes were wide and bright.
She knelt, prayed and offered her gift.
The church was suffused with great light.
A collective gasp echoed throughout.
Lucida turned from Jesus’ bed.
The weeds had transformed into flowers.
They glowed like fire and love — deep, flaming red.
—Cheryl Doyle-Ruffing
I based this poem on the The Legend of the Poinsettia, as recorded by Tomie dePaola in his illustrated book by the same name.
12.5.2023: I have a dysfunctional relationship with poinsettias: buying them and then regretting it, because it’s hard to find space and I don’t like to throw them away.