Queen Anne’s Lace in the fields of green, lining stone walls from the past.
What power tatted these doilies now wafting together in the wind?
All summer I protected the flowing white shawl of this field
And watched its slow transformation to the new beauty of fall.

White lace turned to a gentle brown atop tall and proud spines
Even as it had become brittle and perhaps a bit weary.
But it was time to clear the last whisps of the fields,
Time to remove my protective care of the lace of Queen Anne.

The time had come to prepare the fields for the winter
For the snow and the cold, for a rest and a breath.
In circles I mowed paths and the fields revealed these patterns.
The afternoon shadows of tractor and driver bounced along at my side.

Circling above came the silent, soaring and ever-faithful hawks
Looking for the mice that might be stirred in these fields.
They’ve been with me before, likely happy I am back.
They dive and they grab and they get their prey.

The seasons, the seasons — they each burst before settling in
Their colors, their textures, their shapes and their stages.
In its youth in summer the queen’s lace radiated white
Now its soft brown is no less elegant in these final days of fall.

The sun drops lower in the sky and our shadows stretch out
Queen Anne’s Lace, now fulfilled, is ready to drop from its tall stand,
Ready to lie down with the hay as it is warmed on this fall day
Awaiting the blanket of the white snow that will come.