When my friend Phyllis looked out a window she saw a painting. This morning I looked out a window and saw a painting: The leaves on a branch of the maple tree, green, filigreed, And quivering, yes, but with the sun upon them, pure gold not the whole tree, just the branch of a tree, reaching out in front of a forest of trees, an army of greens, marching in place. Catching the occassional ray of sun, Moving as the breeze moves the burnished leaves intricately cut and alive waved to me with a tease of the breeze, golden from a brush of the sun. Phyllis painted, not the tops, nor the bottoms but whatever part of a tree might be captured within the limitations of a window frame. It was the frame that made the picture , the frame and the skill of the painter. Fingers bent and twisted could hardly grasp the paintbrush, (Phyllis had rheumatoid arthritis). But sense of color sharp to the end , they applied paint to suggest wonder and