I grow on branches and come in red or green, I’m crisp when fresh and sweet when eaten. I have a core but no heart, And my name once tempted knowledge at the start.

Created when pinkies intertwine, or when spit covered hands meet, I am a solemn oath that no child may break. You may swear that no crosses count when making me.

I’m not a box, yet I can carry, thoughts and words that some may tarry. I may be plain or dressed with art, I hide my treasure from the start.

Sometimes white and sometimes black, this iridescent stone represents hope My first three are what you may call your grandfather, my last three a friend

A gentle whisper in fabric's weave, a soft shield on a peach's skin, the tender shroud of an old TV screen's static dream.