The Kudzu

Opening up my eyes, still bleary, no one heard my plaintive query,
Through the green and hazy morning, as I struggled to sit upright.
While I sat there gently gasping, suddenly there came a rasping,
As if something was barely scratching, scratching at my window frame.
Just the wind I wanly whispered, scratching at my window frame-
If it’s not, I hope its tame!

Hear my story and listen well. Tis a scary tale I tell;
Of a house built stout and sure and lo, a window not shut tight.
Vainly I regretted sleeping, while outside it came close creeping.
Just like someone slyly sneaking, sneaking up my window pane,
Tis just the wind among the leaves, rustling on my window pane-
Nothing more, it has no name.

Yet my heart was beating hard, I knew what came from my own yard,
Over the fence and through the grass, until it loomed up into sight;
Great flat leaves and tendrils curling, clinging close and then unfurling,
Twisting, turning, all night swirling, climbing through my window plain-
Simple kudzu never yielding, pushing through my window plain-
Am I dreaming, or insane?

(Obviously owing Edgar Allan Poe and his poem “The Raven” much credit, I wrote this after my son spent hours hacking kudzu off of our bushes, trees, fences and clothesline poles, all of which had long disappeared under this lively predator that grows a foot a day, exponentially, as it spreads out in all directions.)