all the beauty of the spring is not locked within one seed,
the aria is not sung in a single breath;
no single brushstroke pins life to the painting,
nor does one word define the poem.
although, certainly,
the thrum of spring is lesser with each lost seed,
the aria is ruined by the absence of one breath,
the painting, flat without a missing splash of color,
and that last perfect sentence would be better with one more —–
infinitesimal
