I show what’s in front, but I’m not what you see, I change with the light, yet stay just as I be, I vanish when touched, but never truly flee.

I break into your property at your command, Just to help you make sure no one else can. Who am I?

I farm clear stones in shallow beds; my fields wear rime when the cold sets. I never bake though I own many cups, twist my spine and watch my harvests jump.

On paper we record history for keeps. On phone we ignore some ignorant tweets. As a noun I helped society remember its prime. As a verb I am often seen as a waste of time.

When I’m too hot I wear a jacket; when you’re too cold I warm your hands. I leave pale halos where I linger, then vanish at the rinse. They call me a face, though I am not one.