Weather or Not

Blow, like a wind,
your judgement of me,
for I am but a willow tree.
Loose my limbs,
hence limber I,
and bend with grace
at your gale force
of preclusions.

Aim a bolt of lightning
and shear me from my roots.
I do not lied in death.

I do lie laterally now,
it is true,
for lightning did shear me.
But, in my willow way,
I am growing like a weed.