In the realm of frost, where whispers call, A white orb gathers, heed its thrall. A sorcerer's tool to tempests bind, A playful spell in winter's mind.

Guarding blooms with pointed grace, A watchful knight in nature's place. Pierces skin, a painful fame, Yet beauty's guardian is its name.

Through forests green, or mountains grand, an unpaved journey across the land, for walkers, I’m a helping hand.

You see me float, atop the foam, not sink, as you think I should. What am I?

I bring my house along for the ride, but speed is something I can’t provide. I’ll get there. . . just not today, at my own pace, I make my way.