I have two long tunnels, but I'm not a cave. I travel with you almost every day. I don't have feet, yet I travel miles. I never move first, yet I'm always along for the ride.

In bunches tight I like to stay, on winding vines I grow each day. Pluck me fresh or let me age, either way, I’ve earned my praise.

Round and round, I twine and twirl, like a yarn spun by a wise old girl. With each pass, the dance grows tight, weaving stories in the soft moonlight.

What do you call a pencil with two erasers?

Though born with fingers, none can feel. I guard with cloth instead of steel.