Election

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.