Outside My Window

The sky is the gray
of a newspaper lying on the floor,
it might be cold,
but from here
it is hard to tell.

Outside my window,
a tree has leaves of metal,
polished to shine,
even in the gray light of day.

I wonder if it feels
smooth and cool
to touch.

An old man slowly hobbles by.
He doesn’t even notice my tree.

Maybe I am the only one
who has seen it shine.

Is there someone
polishing my tree,
when I blink?

© Michele (Guard) Markley 1998