Kudzu doesn’t planits dominance,it just eatswhat’s offered.
Brought here to healwhat erosion carvedfrom hillsides,it acquired gratitudefor everything.
Tri-lobed leaves unfurllike small prayers,soft hands feelingfor purchasein a world that starvedits own soil.
Sweet wild bergamotflourish heavyas forgotten promises,fragrant with abundancethat once came easy.
It climbs telephone polesthe way water finds cracks,not conquest,the somber mathematicsof fillingwhat stands empty.
Watch how it wrapsaround what’s dying:rusted fences,abandoned sheds,the brittle bones of pinesthat surrenderedseasons ago.
Kudzu doesn’t kill,it inherits.
Every leaf breatheswhat we stopped breathing,draws life from groundwe paved over,and walked away from.
Twelve inches in a daybecause this happenswhen something finallygets permissionto grow.
At dusk it spreadslike comfort,green quiltsover the sharp edgesof what we builtthen left behind.
The world heals itselfthis way,slowly, without asking,softening scarswith patient hunger,covering completelywhat we couldn’t learnto tend.