Maureen Donatelli

So much vulnerability,
beauty
clinging to string,
sweet perfume, green hooks,
lavender and pink folds, labial
sweet peas rise
from a thin line of dark dirt,
a porous, secretive skin, small shadows
on the farthest wall
of the barn, far away from the yard,
under the lightest breeze, they flutter
frantic
at the heat,

sprinkled
morning and evening,
their continuance a luxury
through hard drought,
dependent upon small fingers
that curl around
the cracked handle
of an old plastic juice jug.
Libations.
Yes or no.
Such cruelty in small words.