SEX IN THE ENGLISH GARDEN

Light, feathery Astilbe

Sways gently in the breeze,

Afraid she always will be

Faint fluff beneath the trees

Concealing dear Sweet William,

Who rings each foxglove’s bell

Mid coreopsis ruffles,

White lily, like a shell

With deeper inner meaning,

Disdains to join with them;

Spends all the time just leaning

Upon her silver stem,

And hopes to rearrange a

Great sunflower’s golden eye –

She’ll see that when Hydrangea

Drops snowballs in July.