I am small, yet countless, sleeping in the land, planted with care by a patient hand. From me rise sustenance, golden and warm, nourishing lives in many a form.

I bloom with love yet carry a thorn, In gardens and poems I’m often worn. My name is past tense, yet still I grow What fragrant riddle? You surely know.

My touch brings forth the automnal decay. In my breath I carry the winter brisk. If you find me do not cry and whine. It's not my place to decide when spring or summer come for you. You can only accept what lays beyound. Who am I?

guard your head from skyward tears and fiery beams alike, a shield above your dwelling height.

I hop but I’m not a rabbit, I croak but I’m not a bird. I love damp places and moonlit nights. What am I?