Swollen, dark, bulblets at the axils of each of your whirled leaves,
Pointing upwards, as if a sign of your fertility,
Painting you the most sexual of all beasts.
You are almost waiting here tonight,
Like a siren, intent on seducing the entire month of July.
Petals melting back,
Daring the touch of a humming bird's tongue,
Then declaring the act Erotic.
Sometimes I think you wish you didn't wear the clothing of a vixen,
The only lily that doesn't hold the copy write to a lonely face, so people could
Find your fragility before they plucked you to watch you wi