I'm the throat of your household. Popular in December, ignored in May. My feet are on fire, my head is cold. I breath out ghosts, white and grey.

I walk without hands, I speak without words. I answer a question That has no end.

Common lore speaks of spoon make upon delivery Strive to be first , yet known by their last High-prefixed, though low-key The elite of society

Flat traveler bridging the gap, a steady friend in a storm, laid across to bear the weight or stand tall in the face of waves.

I rest in your drawer beside forks and knives, but at night I help two people align their lives. By soup or by snuggle, I’m always in tune. What am I? Why, I’m your trusty-!