I'm soft without being liquid, light without being bright. I gather in corners and cling to your sweater. Clouds are compared to me, and I'm left after dandelions take flight.

I’m a curtain that opens and shuts without a sound, watching over the windows where the soul is found.

At night my children stab me, That's how I make their bed, Some look out with hollow eyes, The others have large heads, My children have two serpents: One flat, one thin I'm told, One stretches and squeezes to size things up, The other binds and holds.

A tool of three letters, though you can use two, The simplest of levers, And has a wedge, too.

Add a Y, it’s a Tribe Called Quest song. Change my first letter to S, it’s the leftovers after a fire. Unchanged, my plural is made for walking.