Formally, shall she begin,
greeting her days with ceremony,
bowing to the sun and to the wind.
The air shall be a mirror
she shall not look in, her petals
peaked and stiff as a nun’s cowl.
She shall avert her face to the bee’s buzz.
Spiked, her stem shall pierce
the Gardener’s thick glove.
In consequence, she shall be passed over.
She shall lose the first flush.

Around her, the rank sweet odor
of the garden in midsummer.      And she, untouched.
Parched, she shall not drink,
shall not confess her need. Nor,
knowing her flaw, shall she ask for mercy.
As summer ends, so finally shall she.
Then shall a simple song be sung
by the low and the high choir,
by cricket and fieldmouse and owl,
whose words, if it had words, would be,
She is gone, the proud solitary one . . .
She: the unfeminine flower.