moonflowers,
like little saints
who scrub and plow,
and bake and kiss,
take tickets, make change,
work two jobs,
and do it again
tomorrow,
like secret poets,
who expose their vulnerable,
quivery souls
scribbling truths
they hide in drawers,
exude their fragrance
without spotlight,
audience,
applause,
even,
especially,
in the
dark
