Roots

I have no roots, says I. Unfortunately this isn't true. Unfortunately, because no roots of mine feed me enough to bloom. No roots hold me enough to keep on my place in the strongest storm. I don't want roots that just tie me down instead of keeping me safe. I don't want roots that only keep me from starving, feeding me only with the illusions of what could be. I will cut those roots soon. I'd rather wither and dry and burn out, but freely. And I still have the rain to feed me, I still have the rocks and hills to keep me safe from the gusts.
And one time I find a place where I can grow roots, large enough not just to keep me there, but to make me bloom, make me grow, make me strengthen, make me live. Make me what I can be.
But until then, I'll cut my roots.