Craig W. Steele

No flower trumps the regal Queen Anne’s lace,
and none present so delicate a bloom
as ever blossomed forth from Gaia’s loom
than this wild carrot’s ivory-petaled face.

Its grace portends the peak of summer’s race,
though sunny days will still embrace its brollies;
its death’s the harbinger of summer’s follies
as autumn heeds her cue and claims her place.

Until that fall, its parasols parade
above both fallow fields and pastures green
like doilies on viridian palisades,
creating riant landscapes where it grows
in gaily festooned plots; ‘twould be obscene,
demeaning, to compare it to a rose.