Filled with breath, I grow with ease, pulled by hands or carried by breeze. At parties I gather in colorful crowds, yet one sharp touch can make me loud. Tied with a knot so I do not flee, the higher I drift, the smaller I seem to be.

I am a small round fruit that grows in bunches. I can be purple, green, or red. What am I?

I shine without being gold, I’m earned, not bought or sold. On shirts, in games, or honor’s stage, What am I, worn with pride at every age?

I’m born at the end of every trade, A paper trail that merchants made. I list the things you chose to buy, With numbers, totals, low and high.

A delicate strip that wraps with grace, binding gifts or winning the race. Twirl it in your hair, or tie your laces with care.