With beautiful skies and a slight breeze

The sapling rests upon the hill.

What could be the start of a group of trees

Or just a weed the world will kill.

A potential to be

Or pushed to the mud

A possible key

Or is just a dud

Words could sway the crowd.

Or words that aren’t allowed.

A voice could warm the heart.

Or a voice that’s lost its part.

The plant holds the gene to heal,

Resting unaware in the field.

When the rain will come conceal,

Will that plant be forced to yield?

A potential to be

Or pushed to the mud

A possible key

Or is just a dud

When the rain is finally gone

The sapling lay wilted and dead

It’s reached its grave by dawn

Just like others, life cut the thread