Eleanor Lawrie, Author

I still have trouble being like the puffin.

It’s OK to do what we can, and be happy about it. Isn’t it?

Today the minimum was forced on me. That’s not something I can change. What I am realizing, gradually and reluctantly, is to be thankful for anything and everything.

So I’m jumping into my bed.

And will enjoy my Michael Connelly novel.

Thank you, little puffin.

White Lace on a Pale Green Ground

The breeze creates a rippling tide

of Queen Anne’s Lace from side to side;

the lovely tops design a spread

more beautiful than any bed.

***

The grass beneath is pale and dry,

through heat and drought it does not die.

The flowers come but once a year,

a welcome sight that’s held most dear.

***

But not to last for, to my dread,

the mowers cut them, every head!

How bare, how stark the meadow lay,

its graceful blanket torn away.

***

Ah! Now I wait another year

for fragile blooms to reappear.

All winter long, beneath the snow

the Queen Anne’s Lace prepares to grow!

***

The cruel blade it will defy

when August comes with sunny sky;

the sweet white lace will then be found

Garlanding the pale green ground.

***

Eleanor Lawrie

August 16, 2011