Impressions of old, ancient secrets I hold. Life turned to stone, in the ground all alone

Fingers like needles, savaged by beetles. Seeds wrapped tight in scaly hold, unobstructed by the cold

I'm often separated by color. In the past I'd be in farms and fields, but now I'm a many in factories. I'm beated and I'm whipped, but I don't bleed. We used to be sold by the dozens, but now, it's harder come to buy us.

I can be found twisted and coiled, or when I creep from the ground. Don't underestimate make, for I can bring death when unwound. Yet I shed not skin, but the snow. Yet I herald not death, but to grow.

I am the only herb that heals all wounds