The Sapling

On the windowsill, in a red pot,
The winter chill, that the snow brought.
It bore and bore, with a smile on it's face,
the warm breath wanting to embrace.
 
The sun arose, the light passing through the hole
cawed the crow as black as charcoal.
Parched throats, only a drop to spare
what all must the sapling bear?

The green sapling turned brown, as the days slowly passed,
It looked around, in the garden vast.
It was finally free, he somehow knew
Towards the sky, off he flew.