A mountain carved by chisel, yet a sphere shot by a thumb, I pave the floors of monarchs and I make the playground hum. I hide a colorful cat’s eye, or trim a kitchen door. And when a heavy hammer strikes, I shatter evermore. What am I?

I am a groove cut deep and low, I hold the string to bend the bow. A step in rank, a mark in wood, Without my shape, no arrow could.

I wear a hat, but I have no head, I grow in the dark on a forest bed. I am a fungi, quirky and small, Standing like trees, though I am not tall.

I hang on the wall and never complain, I’m stuck in a frame, but I don’t feel pain. People stare at my colors and scenes every day What am I, that you paint, then display?

Often traveled by folks, going to and fro. I'm what you might say is the ideal way to go. You can stray from me if you're in a rush, but you're more than likely to get caught in the brush.