The wind version of this sounds better with a light breeze rather than a full blown typhoon

I can celebrate a winner, decorate a gift, or hold back your hair.

No feet, yet every path I pace. No crown, yet every king I grace. I flee no chase, yet none draw near. I mark each age, though dissapear. The more I’m faced, the less I’m known. Without my gift, no shade is shown. What am i?

Latin that refers to earth forms the base of this words birth. Home to plants this dome contains an ecosystem that needs no rains.

I twist as I rise and turn as I fall, A shape that keeps moving though staying small. Found in a shell or a staircase of stone, I curve through the air like I am being shown. I am not a circle, yet I share its grace, A path that keeps bending in the same little space. What am I, so winding and tight in my style, A shape that keeps turning with natural guile?