Her grief overwhelmed her;
sucking the marrow from her bones;
removing the blush from her cheeks.
Perhaps the colors of the flower she held in her gentle hand;
one of the many crocuses
plucked from the window box
would purvey her stillness
in the clatter of everyday life.
Not a wife nor a mother,
her hips are heavy
from the massive burden
she shoulders; the secret she keeps.
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL -Wordle #57