In response to bwarren’s
The Sunday Whorl Wordle #593

Cliff edge welcomed the Elder
expecting her before now
Gripping stalks of thistle to throw
in her gnarled, arthritic fingers
only a slight tremor in her hands
revealed their loss of dexterity

Raising both arms she became
one with air and sky offering
The mountain crest dropped
into the depths of a yawning maw
where a lone crow called to her

A widow’s sheet held tightly
around her slight body
She walked slowly through
wispy gusts of air colored
red by the setting sun