“The other, wry virgin to the last.”
From Sylvia Plath’s “Epitaph for Fire and Flower”

 

Dandelions spark, languid and bright as the
Bumble bee sun. And the other
flowers nod wise heads, wry
in their delicate floral knowledge, virgin
to the touch of rough hands, to
the smell of rotting garbage and the
smoke of intentional fires. They slumber at last.