Cut me off at the ankles or so you said,
stood astride my stump, saw grinned.
‘Not so pretty now are we’
either of us.
Spent the winter finding my roots,
you brought on your hot house girls
throwing out the deadheads
before they even had chance to wilt.
Spring freshened up all that toughening
from too many years the same.
Found new shoots moving upwards,
more bend, less bark to my bite.
Summer and I redecorated it all,
cloaked myself in colour,
announced my presence, my survival.
Dared you to try cutting me down again.