Witches' thimble spiked to quake the heart, glossy, noxious clumps of fool’s parsley, house leek to turn lightning and ill luck: These let my borders be. No lilac wrung for love; wrench rosemary from the ground. Let nightshade choke the roses warded by thicket and thorn. I’ll prowl the edges, tethered, a morning glory stranglehold twining and binding the florid border, hoarding my anger, bitter as hemlock, black as a drowning pool, twisted crabapple crone, brewing and stirring my rage all alone.