I sound like a mistake, but I do not sound like silence. You might hear me in a clap of clouds.

Down in Florida, I help grow islands of great girth Unique to my kind, a plant that gives live birth What am I?

You may lie on me as I am your seat I keep you off the ground, even your feet Although of my kind there are differing sorts I prefer it when trees are my supports

I can be hot, cold, moist, dry. I can cry, and and throw a tantrum, lay ruin like an act of God. You ask how I am, in meaningless small conversations, but I am constantly in your life. What am I?

I wear a crown, but am no king. I scratch the dirt for tasty things. I give my treasure, smooth sometimes white, sometimes brown, Then often end up roasted, served throughout the town.