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Weekly Contest #161
Kudzu’s foreign verdant vines drape a dying wood behind a gray hollow apartment building. I’ve always thought that plant’s name sounds like it could be found on the label of some vagabond’s rusted musical instrument, a windpipe of some sort, that bleats a gray air’s bleak tune. That tune played coolly over the vine’s fecund jungle. The afternoon rain emitted steam from the earth’s cooked crust as I swear those vines extended toward me, growing to me as they breathed in the natural rejuvenating cycle of the sky. I never minded kudzu all...
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