I’m spun from sheep or spun from air, I warm your hands or fill a chair. I knit the truth, I twist the lie, I wrap a tale as time goes by. Pulled apart, I still return. What ties your fingers, story, and burn?

I stand in the desert, ancient and grand, Built by human hands, yet I seem so planned. With a square base and sides that rise to a point, I’ve watched centuries pass at history’s joint.

I’m sharp and soft Hardly aloft a prepositional tool and cannot be kept by a fool What am I?

A boar without balls A garden tool that carries alls You probably know me as a word with a compounding name I too learned, learned something new with this game.

I have a dual nature yet am always good. I am like a feather yet full of power. What am I?