The Tree, the Vine, and the Ant, Pt. three
You and I my vine, surpass all other forest spectors.
We withstand the withering winds, knowing when to fold and crumple like paper in a wastebasket (save with a higher degree of optimism, of course) only to unfurl in perfect sentinal-like form once the wind admits defeat. Our sinews pulsate with the waves of air, never fracturing, as our synchronized defense against the weather melds your length to mine, and implores you to seek haven in the arms of this cradle, a comforting bastion of love and protection. Age has made us wise as to when to bend in the presence of others, yet still we remain tranquilly latched as other less perfect specimens of natural fusion sail away, ripped from the reality of the firm ground. © heathers
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