Several years ago, I read a poem with one memorable image -- fall trees blazing like matchsticks, flaming upwards rather than down.
I have no idea where I read the poem or who wrote it or what its title is. I have only this bit of memory.
But the image lives: I see flaming trees in fall and winter and feel the poem in my bones. How could I not when, making tea, I glimpse a poem blazing beyond the kitchen window?