Am I truly the son of my mother and blood of my brothers? But my appearance stirs up contempt. My family despises me, strangers persecute me, the winter endangers me. I am pitiable and alone. Yet come spring, and my mourning turns into laughter, my shame into glory. For I once was lower than all but now am the most beautiful amongst my brothers.

A sheet of gold, as thin as can be. Many of me make the lungs of a tree.

One version of me you want to hold But another would be indecent. When I'm found hanging from wood, I'm usually indehiscent.

I am the part you seldom see, yet without me, towers fall. I drink in the dark so others can eat in the light. Pull me up, and I may take the past with me. In numbers I hide at the base of powers, in words I hide at the base of meaning. What am I?

I rise to the top, yet I am fully spent, often from heat, but I am not always hot. I displace and replace that which you need, but I am not a gas. If you see me, find the source, or you may find your world asunder.