I'm a member of an online poetry forum called Liquid Poetry. Sometimes we are given challenges to write things as an exercise. Recently we were given this painting and told to write whatever it inspired. Here is what I wrote: 

She knew the sun had come up only by the hour on the clock.
The blanket of grey merely turned a lighter shade as
daylight wrestled it's way into being.
She hardly needed the clock- she couldn't sleep
without his warmth telling her the future was secure.
She stared out the window into a wintery day,
everything a dirty white, grey or beige.
Hard to believe the house would never again
possess anything but this silence.
She knew outside would offer no more than branches creaking in quiet
accusation.
A tear burning a hot path down her face, she went downstairs.
A cup of coffee drunk apathetically, left half consumed on the counter,
the only trace of activity.
She put on her coat, picked up her umbrella in the front hall,
paused to look at a photo of the man
with whom she shared this home.
Turning and opening the door with one motion,
she left, cold air frosting damp cheeks.
The neighborhood as empty as her life now felt,
she walked alone through the wide paths,
cold, wet whiteness crunching beneath her feet.
Umbrella blocking an unfriendly wind,
no one watched her from their windows,
no one to help bear the slightest amount of grief.
She couldn't go on much longer;
the camel's back broke log ago,
leaving it to lay helpless and dying as vultures
plucked at its' hope,
rendering it spiritless.
She continued on toward the cemetery
to say goodbye for the last time,
her dark figure shrinking in the distance,
swallowed up by the vast, cold nothingness of snow.
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