And So, I Don’t Have to Hurry...
I look across the hayfield and see nothing but Queen Anne’s Lace, a field of wildflowers. Something is wrong here. Instead of hay, we have white wildness. It’s as if the flowers took the field by squatters’ rights. I see some whiteness every year, but not here and certainly not in such force. In the hierarchy of flowers, the wild ones rise quickly. Some call Queen Anne’s Lace a weed, but I recall days when these flowers were picked and handed to me with such sweet love. Beaut