My shitty poetry

The tree

Outside was a tree.
A big, dark tree.
It's leaves still have yet to fall
In this month of January.

The snow was piled on the tree
A sight that made me feel uneasy.
Even if the tourists love watching snow fall
In this month of January.

I still watch the tree
From my bedroom window at night.
Forty-three days have passed
And it still feels like January.