Spun fine into thread. In beds. Under heads. Looming white, like a moonlight stead. Make your pick, before the seed-wind spreads. Fibrous from nature. Polyester it dreads.

I am small and live on your screen I show you things without opening an app You can tap me to get quick information What am I

On your head I often sit, a crown of sorts, a perfect fit. Shield from sun or rain I might, or simply add a touch of delight.

Silent sentinels that guard against the sun's relentless gaze, their slats whisper secrets of shadow and light, dancing to the rhythm of the wandering breeze.

I melt when it’s hot, I clink in your cup, I’m cold, clear, and small. What am I?