Pruned

I have always been a flowering vine, 
Seeking new trellises to trail on, 
Climbing ladders to the sky, 
Lusting over neighbor fences 
And stretching green tendrils to fly. 
I have blossomed profusely 
Season after season, 
First petal to peek through snow. 
I have sifted my fragrance 
And scattered it windward 
To the four corners of my earth. 

Yet once in a verdant life 
Comes a storm that would tear 
The heartiest oak to firewood shred. 
The clouds sit smugly black, 
Horizon-laid and waiting, 
Wind-ready and panting for the unleashing. 
And I must, with speed of light, 
Prune back, 
Discard the blossoms, 
Petal by petal, 
Plucking religiously 
Til there is only naked stalk — 
Then turn all my blood to root, 
Send shooting down and inward 
Sap strength to tunnel new finger feelers 
Down, down, 
Strong around 
Mighty rock and weighted earth. 

And the land and sky 
Unleash their fury. 
But I, 
Root 
And hold, 
Grown cold and craven 
Fighting, not to thrive, 
But merely 
Pruned, 
To survive.