Loved this poem by Bijou
Queen Anne’s lace grows quiet
by the roadside in spring.
With brilliant purity, leaves of chartreuse
and flowers champagne.
With edible bitter roots,
wild carrots you could call out by name.
Queen Anne’s lace grows dark
and brittle as a backdrop by fall.
She stays the night just as quiet as before,
with a heart hard as timber by sunrise
still delicate and breakable and
by some fortune still ignored
by the creatures with limbs that might call
out her name and
snap her by the stem for a memorial.
She will not break beneath the endless rains
the frost of the morning or
the bleak quiet of the cul-de-sac,
the shades of grey you could call out by name,
the warm bodies which brush blithe
against the lines of her form.
Queen Anne’s lace sleeps with
her fingers to the sky
and her body deformed in glory,
patient for…
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Saying nothing in particular 
It’s lovely, Jan. Thanks for sharing.
There were only a couple of moments, growing up, when I felt like I connected with my Granny. One was about this plant. There it was called Mississippi Lace, and considered a weed. Granny said she’d always liked it despite the weed status. Then she said her mother had told her it was a good thing she liked Mississippi lace, because it was the only kind of lace she’d ever have. It was the only time I saw her be wistful.
Hugs on the wing.
Oh Teagan – such a bittersweet story.
A similar west coast native is “Yarrow.” I grow it in my garden as it is also drought tolerant.
Thank you for sharing my writing Jan!