An emergency staple, one you can't do without, especially if the power goes out.

Mixed and kneaded, left to rest, I grow with air inside my chest. Then baked until my crust is made, a golden staple that won’t soon fade.

I have skin but no bones, a mouth but no teeth, and I swallow your secrets while hanging from your arm. I sometimes have a hand in me, I also have a hand in my name. What am I?

Sharp little teeth, yet no bite from me, I shed your blocks like falling trees. Across my face you push with care, Till tiny strands are everywhere.

I leave, yet always find my way back; swift and spinning, my journey is a loop. In playful hands, I dance with the air, a wooden traveler with a memory.