I roar like a storm in a tiny room, turning still shapes into swirling bloom. I feast on fruit and veggies too, and only wake when summoned by you.

I'm not a famous baller, though we seem to share a name. Find me in a holler, forest, beach or such in similar vein. Built with haste, oft from waste, and left to fall asunder. But in a storm, to be dry and warm, it's me you huddle under.

Why was there a protest at a fabric store? It's a ... of resistance!

I float above but have no wings, I carry words but speak no things. I pop up when voices are drawn, then vanish when the scene is gone.

Often associated with good ideas, genius moments that light reveals. The answer is only half the word, more the container than the verb.