Moon Flower

Her bloom does not
stretch to touch the sun -
her trumpet petals
open to midnight sky -
call of island coqui;

in life, she lived
in shadows of convention
behind pots of beans
and flowered oilcloths
dulled by soap and scrub.

Equatorial days split
between dark - perhaps,
forgotten ambition;
and light - likely,
routine crumbs house kept;

at night, salsa beats
away from the kitchen;
the moon flower watches
orchids run up palm trees -
dancing with the dark -
her spirit rises from day’s dust.

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