A thing unused, a spot of tea A coin produced, but some make me Of garden run, I, pests repel And some may use me in their spells

From time to time I break banks, but I am no thief. Where I meet my betters, a homonym of wealth, and where there many of me, a pooling of resources. If I appear still, beware. What am I?

Buried treasure beneath the soil, goldenly fried in the pot to boil. A mash of delight that brings a smile, versatile in every style.

I am a fleeting veil, born where worlds collide. Clad in light’s shattered vows, I flee when sought. What am I?

Shaken, rocked, up and down, back to front, a silent tempest of ever-frozen flakes rages over a still moment 'neath a robe of glass, then quickly calms.