The ubiquity of Queen-Anne's lace annoys her;it's not the plant's not doing its job; her soilis loosened and enriched; in time of human
hunger, roots, young leaves and even umbelswould have table use. But there is so much of it; her chickens dislike the stuff, especially
in its second year, allowing their yard and moat to fill with cohort-ranks of pungent spikes. Her friend keeps bees and tells her they will feed
on this exclusively, bittering his honey, bringing down its price. So he watches; when the umbels bloom he moves his hives.
She'd like to query those who thought of Anne;these tiny droplets in a sea of laceNeed not have been a queen's: she tells herself
her own blood has fed this thorned and rock-embedded acre thoroughly. So, queenof weeds, she! Or queen of just-enough.
Published on December 04, 2017 06:00