Too Much Sun Has Made Them Over-Bold

The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise Like crocuses in springtime on the green Like eager maidens wanting to be seen While sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs. Too much sun has made them over-bold They are at risk from their own desperate joy. For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed They must be fertilised or die before they’re old. And this same sun makes me a melting splodge A lick of oil paint mixed and uncomposed. Who was this artist; what did he propose? And will this portrait in my memory lodge? As flowers will inevitably die They do not lose by hurling up their joys. But should we women imitate their ploys? For we might live in shame, amply supplied. Each child of nature feels the touch of sun. Some stretch out in joy while others run. If you might vacillate and never choose She who chooses has the least to lose .