I am born of sand, yet clear as air, I seem to vanish, though I’m still there. I bend the light, or let it pass, and break too quickly with a careless grasp.

I’m folded tight with secrets inside, Savory treasures where flavors hide. Crimped at the edges, golden and warm, In ovens or oil I change my form.

I adorn and beautify, Framing moments, catching light, A silent artist's touch.

I am a colorful crowd in a single bowl, Many different parts make up my whole. I might be dressed in juice or honey, Buying me pre-cut costs extra money.

I’m Crowded but don’t dream it’s over . . .