She drags her rusty kneeler as way opens
amid plants knee high, wetting her blue
trousers in dew, as clouds decide
to open or not, as the morning star
recedes and hides itself, with a sliver
of new moon, in day. Poppies
have not yet awakened, nor daisies.
She kneels and kneels again, eyeing
potato vines, chard, kale, spinach, beets
to see are they hiding pretenders beneath
their skirts: thistle, geranium, nipplewort,
even nascent blackberries, ash trees, an oak.
Most of all, she seeks out bindweed, a long
vine snaking from place to place, climbing,
smothering fruitful things. She knows
she's prejudiced, but her rationale is:
bindweed's not for eating; raspberries are.
Her
hands elect who dies, who lives today.