Falling sweet, or falling hard, I'm a hint, of what's to be spared, From heights great, to a single tear, My impact's felt, though I'm just one, clear.

I am born in a field, but cooked in a pot, I'm best served warm, though sometimes not. I can be savory or sweetened with brown, I'm a hearty breakfast in many a town. What Am I?

A bug, termite, locust or ant, All things that form the name I chant. Feared by most, yet I serve a role, Son, leave me be-don’t take a stroll.

Deep in the earth, I awake to bring flowers. For a genius, I appear before them to bring them power. For a pocket monster, My name is in their own For what am I, when I could be found in your home?

I live where light forgets its name and silence learns to hold, I drink the dark so life above can dare to grow and gold. I never move, yet I decide which way the branches lean, A past made solid underfoot, unseen but evergreen. Cut me and the towering falls, though I was never shown. What am I, that grips the world while never owning stone?