Spun by a creature small and shy, within a cocoon it waits nearby. Though meant to shelter future wings, I instead become cloth for queens and kings.

I am a floor that no one built, a mirror that cannot be hung. I am born from the sky's tears but killed by the kiss of the sun. Step on me, and I shatter; walk away, and I heal without a scar.Though I am shallow enough to drown an ant, I can hold the reflection of every star. What am I?

I have three sharp prongs, but I'm not a fork for dining, I stand in the barn where the autumn sun is shining. Farmers use my long reach to toss the golden hay, What am I, used hard through a long workday?

Born of water, shaped by frost, I vanish when the cold is lost.

When leaves do fall and land in heaps, I gather them while the garden sleeps. With tines like fingers, I work the land, collecting nature's wool by hand.