Invasive plants get around, the woods are a promiscuous place.
Kudzu, rose of Sharon come with a mad lust for life
and one genetic imperative—grow. Their idea of fitting in
is to take over: nature's totalitarians.

There's grace too—seeding and spreading beauty at random,
the insight to make your home a garden, finding your best voice
with every new spring. We would do well to emulate
the magnetism in a plot of zinnias.

Humans come with a different brand of lust for a life.
True, as species go it's hard to out-invade the human kind,
but our DNA encodes more than a simple instruction to spread:
humans are wired to belong—it's the democracy of our genes.

In democracy you give an inch, and a family moves in next door.
Why wouldn't they? You're a good neighbor. There's ample parking.
Military presence is a cousin home on leave, and nobody is dropping
bombs on the rooftops. Families trim bushes, seed their gardens,
sometimes wire money back to parents they may never see again—
it's the genetics of fitting in.

Plants don't always fit in—the messy, assertive kudzu,
but they never seethe with hate. Humanity is an assertive mess,
and though we seethe, sometimes it's with love.
The urge for kinship is deep in our cells and, fear of the other
runs deep in our species, a paradox of imperatives. No wonder
we can't think straight.

There can be too much kudzu, mess, and confusion in this world,
never enough flowers, belonging, clarity—knocking at your door
to assert some neighborly advice: be the opposite of too much hate—
let it fill you up like air, lift you into the next moment—
be invasive with your love.