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.