I have a single tail but no head, I bleed vibrant colors but I am already dead. I love to be hugged by needles and hooks, And I tell warm stories without using books.

Round and round the sun we go, each day marked in a row. My pages turn, seasons flow, keeping track of time's gentle show.

I glide but never wander, I press without a hand. I’m trusted before meetings, Yet feared when left to stand. What am I?

Thousand upon thousands of grains am I, beneath the sun and open sky. I line the shores and deserts wide, where small hands build, and waves decide.

A toothpick was awarded Toothpick of the Year. What was their reward?