A November Morning

John Atkinson Grimshaw, A November Morning

A November Morning

The sky is first lemon, then orange,
the air whispers with dry citrus humor
as we crunch through the russet leaves
of last year’s promise,
heels shuffle-tapping on cobblestones
that cover the detritus of centuries.

A single leaf falls, silently like the “e”
on hope. Or love. The sunrise is a question
echoed by birds in short chirps and longer trills.

You take my hand. I let you. We walk on.

A poem for my ekphrastic prompt on dVerse today. This painting makes me think of paths in Old City Philadelphia.