She clutched the tiny seed in fist
in hopes that it would not be missed.
But grasping tight, not letting go,
suppressed its noble need to grow.
So there within the sun's domain,
amidst the light and gentle rain,
She scooped the soil and made a hole,
And dropped the seed that had a soul.
Her letting go was not a chore,
But letting go required more.
She conquered this, nonetheless,
And starting masking her distress.
When time had passed when all was still,
there bloomed a dainty daffodil
whose beauty made them hold their breath,
but she still mourned her seed's dear death.
