Lizzy Burnam 🐞

In an intimate forest of strangers, 
I am an axe with a human soul, 

attuned only to the widow-maker’s groan. 
The gust will come as surely as it goes

but who would choose death over chaos? 
I ask and the trees fall silent. 

I ask and the wildflowers close. 
Fickle as a false north. Bah. 

For all we know, the second wind  
is excavated from a scar in the earth. 

But the grief still grows there. 
And how green our grief still grows.