Pruning

Remember, last fall, when I cut you back,
until the sap bled from your broken branches?

Remember, how I came, like God
To break off your arms, to cut away your fingers?

So proud you were then, and so beautiful,
Waxy and green, before I turned on you so cruelly.

You were too tall, you would have broken over,
You could not survive another summer.

Now, out of your wounded, withered stumps
New stems push out. New growth begins.

I can strip you back to a pile of branches on the ground,
but your roots are strong, you will grow again.

Sweet now, as green butterflies, your tiny buds
reach out and drink intoxicating glory from the sun.