Gumi, 2025
I can see the bus coming
I'm not sure if I care.
I'm safe under the roof of the bus stop anyways.
The rare patches of green at my feet are water logged
And I admire the ambition of all the weeds that have cropped up.
The industriousness of the creeping vines reminds me of home,
Reminds me of the rainy Georgia summers I grew up with.
The kudzu grows into the drainage ponds and ditches
Leaving you with no clue where the ground is.
It used to scare me, the kudzu.
It seemed to consume the ground, the tree, the old barns and sheds.
I get it now.
It can't help but grow.
It can't help but climb the trees and reach for the sun.
Right now the sun is hidden by dark clouds,
And water drips on my head from a crack in the bus stop roof.
I let the bus pass.