Friday, May 27, 2016

Who lives

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.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016


She went to fight bindweed
among cabbages, peas,
borage, arugula,

potatoes, raspberries
and such. Distracted by
thistles, as they are more

easily removed, she
worked an hour, then eased
ponderously into  

her cracked resin chair, out
of breath, watching two gold-
finches having it out

on a mossy fence post.
What is not said in six
syllables is silence.