She drags her rusty kneeler as way opensamid plants knee high, wetting her bluetrousers in dew, as clouds decide 
to open or not, as the morning starrecedes and hides itself, with a sliverof new moon, in day. Poppies
have not yet awakened, nor daisies.She kneels and kneels again, eyeingpotato vines, chard, kale, spinach, beets
to see are they hiding pretenders beneaththeir skirts: thistle, geranium, nipplewort,even nascent blackberries, ash trees, an oak.
Most of all, she seeks out bindweed, a longvine 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. Herhands elect who dies, who lives today.