A gentle sound of air's embrace; quick like a whisper, it cuts through space. In sneakers' dance, it finds its name, a signature move in athletic fame.

After a word, a direction you go toward, Waiting for an attack, if you have a button-tipped sword, Part of a hospital, sometimes one on each floor, A term for a child, or anyone you're a guardian for

You use me to get high, but also to come back down.

Skaters can glide Wesley Snipes can Marvel Billy Bob can Sling Lives in a sheath, pulled out with a glide.

Though I may have a leaf or two And I may be made of wood, I am not a tree that grew. I'm where you set your food.