In mirrors I reflect, in windows I frame, In cups I take shape, though always the same. Through me, the light will bend or pass, but handle me wrong, and I will not last.

I have a face but no eyes, and I have a pole but never go fishing. I can be captured without being chased, and I’m raised but have no voice. I’m full of holes but still hold the wind, and I’m always at the top when I’m at my best. What am I?

I'm light as a feather, but hold shapes with might, A sea of small beads, reflecting back light. I cushion and insulate, a purpose I claim, But recycling me properly is always the game. What am I?

Portable wardrobes for travelers, filled with stories of far-off lands, often tossed on conveyor belts, yet they hold more than clothes—they hold journeys.

What's black and white and red all over?