You once told me all I could ever become was a creeper.
With roots that go rotten and stems which supine.
You once told me all I could ever ripen into was a climber.
Bearing leaves of languid and yields that decline.
And as the harshest floods descend.
I call for freshly found violet patches of fronds to tend.
Tasting different flavors of erosion.
I cleanse my palate with new wounds of exhaustion.
But a familiar southwest breeze blows on my scars.
And the scabs turn cuts into strongest barks.
You rain on me to nip the bud in the nature's name of pruning.
But with ever chop I turn over a new leaf, for I am the raintree found evolving and curing.