A Vine in Winter

twisted and bare, yet still it clings to crumbling stone and frozen things the winds may howl, the frost may bite but deep in its veins, the sap burns bright silent it waits, patient and wise under the hush of ashen skies snow weighs heavy on fragile bone but roots hold strong beneath the stone no bloom, no green, no velvet leaf only the promise, quiet and brief that when the sun returns to reign the vine will rise and drink the rain