The Seedling

In winter’s soil, the seed awakens,
Stretches forth and seeks the sun.
“Not yet” the others whisper, worried,
“The time is not yet right for us”.
A little tendril, small and green,
An optimist, the glass half full.
He sees the sky and is renewed,
Fails to heed the warning cries.
“I feel the sun” he thinks, and wonders,
Why the others are so glum.
Winter’s chill is not so bad,
He’s first to see the setting sun.
The birds all settle for the night,
They sing to him, a sweet lament.
As morning frost creeps up his stem,
He withers in the dawning light.
“Too soon” he sighs, “I understand,
The cold is more than I can bear”.
A fleeting life farewells the land,
Leaving it in winter’s grasp.
The other seeds are sleeping still,
Safe inside the dark soft earth.
Patiently they slumber on,
Await the coming of warm Spring.

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