Split in two, it’s when someone parks for you, in sound, you feel: a star. Six lettered, it’s a low you’ll find, see them near and far. Minus first, it’s in the back, maybe where they put the car. The last four backwards, shout at you, how you talk in crowded bars

I'm an aviary type and yes my bones are hollow. At least my name carries no innuendo, like that little weirdo swallow.

When life's journey's a grand old affair, a small slip promises you'll be there. A stub of trust in your trembling hand, granting entrance to sights so grand.

No teeth, yet I bite, no hands, yet I squeeze. I visit after workouts, and drop you to your knees.

I fit in sockets, and brighten the space, I sprout, then grow, then flower in place. A four-letter word, one few stop to think, Yet I live in the soil, and glow in a blink.