I creep without legs, slow but sure, A frozen river, ancient and pure. I carve valleys without hands, leave scars in stone, Carry giants where they’re never known. I whisper in creaks, I roar in collapse, Time rides my back in icy maps.

Some are superior Some are eerie Some are artificial But those are dreary

I can seal a door without a key. I can leave the sky in a jagged flash. I can cross a room faster than your doubt can catch me. I can hold two pieces together so tightly they behave as one. What am I?

The ending of a holiday bird And also for a pack animal that lives in a herd. Three little letters, one syllable long, The most important thing to know before playing a song.

I hung in gardens of emperors and kings, A jewel of purple in medieval springs. Preserved in brandy, baked into a pie, Sought by monks where old orchards lie. Not apple nor pear, though kin I assume What fruit am I?