Filled with precipitation, And not to boast, The most diverse biome. Finer roast.

The ground around me is forgiving to a fall, but deadly without understanding. Near or far, people traverse on me for beauty or sport. Here beauty can turn to a swirl of chaos.

Airline. Change. River. Slope. Triangle. Discriminant. Particle. Is it just me, or am I starting to sound Greek?

In hallways where the holy gather, you might bump into a Father. I could be green in the middle, can you solve this strange riddle?

I speak without words, Point true while you spin in doubt. I love no one place, Yet swear by north alone. Trust me, and you’ll be found.