In my locket, a sunny hue, a stone so warm, not red nor blue. A treasure that catches the eye, like golden leaves in the autumn sky.

I paint no canvas, hold no brush, yet fields wake to my silver hush. By morning’s warmth my work is through, until cold nights begin anew.

Being a wolf is quite hard. The moment you are born, you are expected to set the world on fire and kill the god of the dead. No pressure! At least somebody gave me a snack when they bound me here. Now I'm just waiting for my sister to loosen up so the fun can begin.

I am born from a tiny seed, buried in the dark, I drink the rain and chase the sun, though I leave no mark. When my colors turn to gold, sharp blades will set me free, I am gathered up to feed the world what must I be?

I have no hands, but I can knock. No mouth, but I can whistle. I chase your hat and tickle your hair, Yet you’ll never catch me there. What am I?