Kudzu

A poem for Appalachia

I Am,

Wild like kudzu vines spreading across the hills.

Empty like a house long ago forgotten.

Broken like a barn whose beams once held up acres of tobacco.

Rough like a corn cob picked over by the squirrels.

Lost like a tourist on a one lane gravel road.

Cold like the creek that the kids jump into at the start of summer.

Sharp like the glass broken along …