I fall from cans in silver streams, To wake up roots and feed their dreams. In gardens, fields, and pots I sing, Life awakens when I bring. Too little, plants begin to fade, Too much, and muddy mess is made. What am I, that nourishing thing, But make sure you add your ing.

In the dark, I'm most alive, Twinkling lights, I'm passing by, A reflection shows my gentle face, A world of dreams, in a secret place.

Falling sweet, or falling hard, I'm a hint, of what's to be spared, From heights great, to a single tear, My impact's felt, though I'm just one, clear.

I am born in a field, but cooked in a pot, I'm best served warm, though sometimes not. I can be savory or sweetened with brown, I'm a hearty breakfast in many a town. What Am I?

A bug, termite, locust or ant, All things that form the name I chant. Feared by most, yet I serve a role, Son, leave me be-don’t take a stroll.