Fingers like needles, savaged by beetles. Seeds wrapped tight in scaly hold, unobstructed by the cold

I'm often separated by color. In the past I'd be in farms and fields, but now I'm a many in factories. I'm beated and I'm whipped, but I don't bleed. We used to be sold by the dozens, but now, it's harder come to buy us.

I am the only herb that heals all wounds

I’m wielded by hands but not for crafting art. One form tills the soil, while the other may break hearts. What am I?

I wear a cap but have no head, I sleep in earth, my leafy bed. Though small and round, I hold great might one day I'll grow to touch the light.