Golden spread that's great on toast, Makes flavors dance across the coast. A dairy delight that melts with grace, Always a star in the breakfast space.

Leather, plastic, metal, wood, paper or even a finger will do. I hold your place between the sheets for you.

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?

I wait beside the well where manners wear a borrowed face, Offered with a courteous tone in a cold, enclosed space. I promise comfort to the skin while fear learns how to listen, A civility rehearsed where eyes refuse to glisten. Asked for softly, never kind, a ritual cloaked in notion. What am I, whose slip precedes a chilling devotion?

Stake your life Bring your mightiest, Draw against a ruler Right under your nose? Don't inhale