In Michigan in summertime, the roadsides are profusions of Queen Anne's Lace or, as my mom used to call them when she was a girl in Maine, "My Lace." Its filigreed, flat flowers balance precariously like china saucers on pencil-thin stalks. They form white collars around the bases of fence posts and, in the open pastures, they nod in the wind like old ladies' faces vigorously agreeing with me. (If you've never been affirmed by a field of flowers, you must make a point to experience it.) When the air is still, it looks like hundreds of doilies have been tossed lightly all over the grass.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Queen Anne's Lace
In Michigan in summertime, the roadsides are profusions of Queen Anne's Lace or, as my mom used to call them when she was a girl in Maine, "My Lace." Its filigreed, flat flowers balance precariously like china saucers on pencil-thin stalks. They form white collars around the bases of fence posts and, in the open pastures, they nod in the wind like old ladies' faces vigorously agreeing with me. (If you've never been affirmed by a field of flowers, you must make a point to experience it.) When the air is still, it looks like hundreds of doilies have been tossed lightly all over the grass.
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