I grow in the garden, yet not on a tree, in a salad or sandwich, I’m often set free. I’m crushed or sliced, but not put in a sweet, I’m plump when I’m ready, savory, and neat.

I bite, yet have no teeth to show, found in green where few will grow. Through drought and heat, I stand with grace, A guarded heart in barren place.

I start with leaves but never grow, I bring warmth when the cold winds blow. I use water, but not from the rain, steeped in patience, I ease your strain.

I grow without movement, yet mark the years, I’m counted by moments, but never appear. I’m measured, but I don’t take shape, I track your life, but never escape.

When crafted by writers, I may be great, but sometimes I might determine your fate.