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.