A sticky tar sap. Needled skirt up to cap. Boarded in bulk. Shape hung: travels map.

Winter's fingers creeping down to tap, tap, tap at the walls, the windows from the eaves of your roof. In the cold night, they can certainly look intimidating, but not so much during the day. The sun makes them so nervous, they break into a cold sweat!

A quiet snare, lying in wait, whispers of cheese in its bait. Spring-loaded fate for those who scurry, a clap of final hurry.

Crimson petals bloom, Sleeping dreams in gentle fields, Red calm, then gone soon.

It’s black when you buy it, red when you use it, and white when you throw it away. What is it?