The wet November asphalt is waiting
The streetlight looks at it skeptically
Its naïve optimism is grating
When you have seen what autumn nights can be
Rumors about winter multiply now
Its reputation chronicled by frost
Green and throbbing life cannot explain how
The value of sunlight exceeds its cost
Listen to this frail, liminal moment
It speaks the language of dwindling hope
Before salted snow smothers the cement
We must shoot sunlight like expensive dope
Dream of Demeter, walking the asphalt
Her mind a wheat field, glowing, without fault
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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