Lizzy Burnam 🐞

The Unspoken Thing 
sits cross-legged 
in a field of dry grass
weeping dandelion
seeds with every gust 
of wind. The Unspoken
Thing pays no mind 
to the seeds, breeze 
or blanketing gray
where once was green. 
The Unspoken Thing 
just sits and weeps 
and doesn’t look up 
at bumbling bees or
draconianflies who sneak
through black silhouettes 
of trembling trees. 
The Unspoken Thing 
just sits and waits
and weeps as soft 
as mud and moss 
and spreads its seeds 
of sorrowful blush 
and bottomless need. 
The Unspoken Thing 
sits there until its cloud
of stalks is cast across 
the sprawling gray
into a thousand cheerful
sprouts whose birth
is wet and supple green
unlike their death
which still to come
is yet unknown, unseen 
and lifetimes long
(too long!) unspoken.