I arrive as promise, not as form, A brief display by light made warm. I trade in color for a task unseen, A quiet pact with wings of sheen. I’m praised, I pass, yet leave behind The means to repeat my kind.

I appear when water is beaten, yet I am lighter than what I’m born from. I cling to shores, mugs, and mouths, a crowd of tiny prisoners made only of air. I vanish at a touch or with time, but while I last, I soften every surface. What am I?

White crystals that make flavors bold, In oceans deep and mines of old, A pinch of me, your dish is sold, Without me, bland stories unfold.

A silent cloak of gray descends, a city’s breath it deftly blends, sun’s golden gaze it often mends, a hazy veil where vision bends.

At the start of an intro or the end of a line Fish might get caught on it while they dine With a curve and a point it draws them in And in writing it is there to make you listen