CORONA IN THE COUNTRYSIDE

In the cemetery
the dead grow
weeds.
This is how they speak, each
interprets as they will.
Some produce a shrub,
or even an entire cypress tree.
According to the hillocks
a blind mole too
tunnels underneath.
We’re still here,
ambling about in twos
in wonder at the taunting clothes
of spring,
coughing freely
into its green fields.

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