In puddle parades, these rubbery guardians march, keeping toes dry beneath the darkest clouds' tears.

It has the house surrounded And very well grounded Some made with sod, some from seed. All need time taken to weed.

You'll find me on the sweetest rose, biding my time to make you bleed.

Is it alive or is it dead? Is its fate all in your head? Lifting the box assuming its demise. Aren't you lucky it has nine lives?

I race with the wind though I’m not made of air. I slip through the silence and vanish from there. You’ll know I was near by the sound of my push - a fleeting, breathy little...