I hang in clusters from a vine, Small and round, purple or green. Squish me and I make wine, What am I that you’ve seen?

I can be planted or plugged in, either way, I bring something to life.

I am a subterranean chamber that swallows cold rain and spits boiling fury, tearing through the skin of the earth. Unlike a volcano that bleeds liquid fire, I only erupt with superheated water and blinding steam. Some of my kind scream every few minutes, while others sleep for centuries. What am I?

I am the end of a flame, yet the start of a phoenix.

I turn the summer darkness into a field of stars, blinking in the darkness, as if they came down to play.