The dangers of leaving a puddle of water for too long, new life emerges, ready to turn whatever green and inedible.

I start out small, a clustered treat, but time can make me something sweet. Or aged to something bold and fine, what am I that turns to wine?

Ork, ork, ork, soup is eaten with a ... Or is it? Don't think or you'll get this wrong, even though your answer is right.

A weightless dancer, Born of bird, ascends on high, A quill's soft whisper.

A tightrope walker with steady feet, In life's grand circus, they never retreat. They juggle scales with equal weight, Keeping harmony, their silent trait.