Springtime

There are infinite segments of a moment in time.

There is a spring somewhere
  for a little seed.
And she awaits it's coming
  from here on winter's day.
The urge within her swells
  of wanting for the robin to come home
  and the trees to dress their naked, knotty limbs;
  for the children to laugh and sing...they too have gone.
I fear her fate.
 Should she thrust her infant spriglettes up
  to taste the sun
  too soon.
  Would the frosty night return
  beheading her, her frail existence,
  before the chance to bloom?
And if she waits another year
  her fate I still must fear.
  Could then a blizzard come
  to freeze her thoroughly to the bone;
  her Spring denied.
But then that fateful day appeared.
  She laid her trust upon the hand
  of a circumstantial god.
  Should if the frosty night return
  her effort will not have been in vain.
  Because that finite day contains
  An infinite of infinite springs.

MG Morris