Queen Anne’s Lace

 

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Out back, the Queen Anne’s Lace
grows unabated these days.
Looking down from my window,
each cluster of tiny snowflake petals
floats lacy and dense,
each a frothy stepping stone
you might walk upon across
this green-daubed array of goldenrod,
ragweed and someday maples
that cascades down the hill.
When I walk outside for a closer look,
they look down upon me on the slope,
waving in the wind like clouds
blowing around the sky.
Here, they mask the setting sun,
showering speckled shadows
upon my eyes.

Funny how the same bit of life
can appear sturdy or soft,
inviting or invasive,
lovely or loathsome, if you’re
too close to it or too far away.
I was that flower once,
buoyant upon a verdant wave of hope,
who then became something
requiring extraction from view,
when I draped darkness upon
the true vision of who we were.
I guess there’s something to be said
about knowing how to keep
just the right distance.
Oh, and killing winter.
Spring, too, I guess.

Photo by Joseph Hesch.

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