The Lacemaker

Outside the béguinage in Bruges

a widow sits beneath a tree.

Old fingers tie the knots of lace,

white cotton filigree.

She is intent but does not frown,

a granddaughter at her knee

their bobbins arrayed in a complex web

indecipherable to me.

I do not know her history,

but her story’s in her age:

wars and weddings, feasts and griefs

that time has bleached of rage.

The béguinage is still and cool.

This is one view of grace:

A Flemish widow in the shade

Elaborating lace.