Wisteria

Milky purple in the springtime sun, misty silver in the light of the moon.  Suspended by twisting vines like little bunches of grapes, ripe and begging to be harvested.  Housing bees and sheltering butterflies amid swaying stems.  Simply beautiful at this peak season.  Such peace.  The picture of carefree serenity.  Then, the storms come.  Screaming through the trees and ravaging the wispy blossoms that hang from those twisting vines.  Giving way to solid green leaves and, in the blooms that remain, a faded, tired, lavender.  Petals litter the walk.  The boiling sun dries them, shrivels them, burns them away.  Gone are the days of blissful breezes and even warmth.  Unrelenting humidity penetrates the desire to bloom, drying up whatever hopes of a recurring spring there may be. 
Then, chill.  The air turns cool again but this time with the faint promise of bitter cold to come, light in the suggestion, like a kitten padding through grass.  The canopy of leaves belonging to the tree above the twisting vines turns dark, recoiling inward on itself as if to say "please winter, not yet!"  The vines beneath wave goodbye to the last traces of prosperity they had posessed in the preceding months.  Now, standing bare, the vines appear violently bent and twisted, bearing no sign that beauty ever once dwelled there.  A lone blackbird alights on a flimsy twist, unpleasantly surprised at the vine's willingness to break under his weight.  "Go away," says the vine, with a dying breath.  "This place is saved for a season far from now.  I'll be beautiful again and your ugliness will not be welcomed among these vines."  So, the bird lifts off, disappearing as a shadow into the light snow that has begun to fall.  And the twisting vines watch, glaring after it. 
The snow commences, torturing the wispy vines; the bone-chilling wind digs her talons into the very depths of the creature's last storehouses of xylem and phloem.  The vines cling to its tree, trying desperately to plead for a portion of warmth.  Oh how it longs for the sun again.  But still the snow beats down, coating the naked vine with a wedding gown stitched from snowflakes.  It is impossible to distinguish the vines' true gnarled, twisting shape among the heavy skirts it wears. 
Then, there is an awakening.  The vines feel a shift in their bones.  Their lifeblood is thawed and they are renewed.  The sun has returned, replacing the cumbersome white gown with a sundress of green and purple.  And once again, the honey scent of Wisteria flutters through the air.