I'm formed by forceful stirring. Creamed by silent hand or machine whirring. Yellow, slippery, yet sticky, I hug many foods - I'm not picky. Unlike snowmen, many prefer me to melt, But too much of me might break your belt.

In puddle parades, these rubbery guardians march, keeping toes dry beneath the darkest clouds' tears.

In yonder nook where embers glow, A homely heart with warmth to show; Gather round, my dear, with tales to share, For here the hearth's embrace is rare.

I creep through clouds without a sound, A giant ghost above the ground. I’m full of air, yet made to fly, What am I drifting through the sky?

It has the house surrounded And very well grounded Some made with sod, some from seed. All need time taken to weed.