Crystal white, On winter streets, Seasons sorrow, On pouting cheeks?

What is a penguin's default method of travel?

Breaching hulls, bashing ships It’s not as friendly as it seems Floating fish, massive citys Nothing may stand against it’s wrathful face Some call them rogues, others freaks Sometimes tsunamis Sometimes ripples Often lapping gently on the shore

In fields of green, I stand so bright, A golden sun in morning's light. With wishes blown, I take to flight, A gentle puff, I'm gone from sight.

Oh my stars! Tiny traveler in a pod, with dreams of sprouting far and wide. Often found in Granny's stew, warming the soul like a trusted quilt on a chilly night.