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?

I cradle roots beneath the dirt, while plants reach for the sky. What starts below my surface soon grows before your eyes.

I am a wheel that rolls upright, but I have no axle. I am the child of a wall that never stands, And the parent of a silence that terrifies. What am I?

I rest on the grass before morning is bright, Born from the clear and quiet night. I shine like tiny glass beads in the sun, But vanish away when the day has begun.