I have an eye but cannot see, yet thread must often pass through me. Though small in size, my work is fine, joining torn edges line by line.

When toasting I rise, I'm shattered when I fall I can fit in your hand, Or be on the wall. I can sit on your face To make things more clear, Or travel great distances To make things look near. What am I ?

What is a calendar's favorite snack worldwide?

I am a stationary storm, Whose spinning teeth rewrite the form. I crush the many into one, And vanish when the melding's done. What am I?

I speak of allegiance without a sound, Bound to a mast high above the ground. Remove my first letter, a gamer's deep woe, I dance in the gale when the high winds blow. What am I?