I sit inland and mirror mountains. Rivers come to me; some leave, some don’t. My waves are quiet, my winters solid. A few of my kind are called Great. What am I?

I’m a tree you can eat, Green and elite. Kids argue, adults cheer. What am I here?

You have a cloth for your roof, a shovel for your bathroom and a ring of stones for your kitchen. What are you doing?

I’m argued over more than I’m eaten, a fruit by truth, a vegetable by habit.

Arr, ye tangled tapestry of the forgotten, where the sea's whispers weave in silence. Hidden in corners where shadows cast, ye be the ghostly net of dusted past.