Life After Death
Something startled me:
where I thought I was safest
where I thought I belonged
so I will follow Whitman—
avoid the still woods I love
and fields where I used to walk.
I won’t emerge from my home
to meet friends in open spaces
or hug them and share a coffee,
there are no cafes anymore.
Even the ground has sickened.
Men in white spray disinfectant
over streets to stem disease.
Yet, I’m alive to sounds of spring
rising from death and decay of winter.
I’m alive to the prospect of summer
when death-fertilised ground shows life
where even death had planted blooms.