A Tale of Male Delicacy

A nosegay of florets crammed into a hole
Is easily beaten by one made of flesh.
Compelled to decorate my soul
I naturally am a bit rash.

Too stirred to go out plucking daisies
I'd leave 'em where they gaudify
But what I stick into the vases
Won't wither, mowed away.

Mine fade and die by slight attention
But in an incarnadine flowerpot
Dainty corollas of venison
Do flourish quite a lot.

(At any rate, they must do
Expedients for barren a season––
I resort to those who wouldn't renew
Resisting and yet wrested from the freezer.)

November 21, 2007