The ground around me is forgiving to a fall, but deadly without understanding. Near or far, people traverse on me for beauty or sport. Here beauty can turn to a swirl of chaos.

Stumps I make, The leftovers you take, I am man-made, Just a stick and a blade

When leaves turn to nature's confetti, and the sun takes a softer stroll across the sky, this season hums a cooler tune.

If mutts could meow, and tabbies could bark; If pencils wiped clean, but erasers could mark; If the grass were blue, And the sky was green; What would the answer, To this riddle have been?

Golden crown with a face that turns, Chasing warmth as the bright orb burns. Fields of yellow stretch afar, Nature's compass to the distant star.