Conception, I deny. I'm born from wounded trees that cry. Entropy’s child, shaped by fire. I twist and yield, yet never die.

My first three letters are an average score My last four are a weaving reed Remove my fourth for brief truce in war But altogether, a garnish green, herbaceous, bright, and a bit earthy

I'm not very big, so you can't feel my bite. Yet, allergists fear me. I am a...

I travel light yet leave no trail, A secret prize lies at my veil. I stand for love in many hues, Yet slip away when you pursue

A carpenter, I call myself, An artist dressed in plume. The trees call me to aid their health; The insects call me doom.