The Tree, the Vine, and the Ant, Pt. three

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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.

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