Oddly less feminine,
was the flower
without the colour
who ate the bees with crunches and these
labor scents of oil and dirt
And nails was the petals that
hissed and spat
the flower, the wonder
who grew through
The legs of a man
Over under, near she ponder
I do slightly ever so wonder
How does one break the hand
Oddly less feminine the flower
Who lacked not the power
who pollinated herself with tender roots,
Who stole the sting from wasp alike,
a flower all white,
tore trees she strike
And born was she, or he, or thee
A flower not unlike you and me
The one without the identity
Recklessly,
Splendidly
was such thee
feminine flower