She slowly stirred the sugar
in her rose hip tea,
wondering at the massive
stillness outside her window.
The ever-present clatter of chimes
absent, no wind to rattle the metal
or carry the scent of the crocuses —
the one flower she allowed in her garden —
into her quiet room. It was in these still
moments that the grief she kept close
at hand would seep through her skin
to settle with an ache into her marrow
and reveal the secret colors
of her wounded soul; the blacks
and grays sun and wind could
conceal, but never cleanse.
Written for the Sunday Whirl wordle.