Do you even mow a cemetery?


I smelled Spring this morning
walking down the hill to visit you

my toes begging for sun
my feet contending with wild weeds
and ant hills
instead of snow

the fluttering dandelions
and confident, overgrown grass
raise my eyebrows in disdain

“How often do they mow here?” I ask the stones indignantly

Silence and I survey the cemetery in confusion

“Do you even mow a cemetery?” I blurt out loud, laughing.

Laughing, because what a stupid, strange question to ask…
but I live in a stupid, strange world

I shrug my shoulders and head back up the hill
to the echo of chuckling headstones
who have heard that question before

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