Written for:  The Sunday Whirl, Wordle #575

Words:  field, murmuring, bruises, depths, lifted, skin,
        wants, crevice, edge, ancestors, salt, grief


Salty tears of grief
pour from the depths
of her ancestor's eyes.
She had tried her best,
desperately wanting
to keep up the farm,
and fields.  Wished
she could shield her
ancestor's hearts
from the brown, bruised
crevices in which rich
soil once lived.  Where 
ripe red skin of Autumn
apples lifted her spirits.
At the edges of her mind
she can hear soft
murmurings of despair
from those who came
before her.  She prays
they all understand
her own salty tears.

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