I’m spun from sheep or spun from air, I warm your hands or fill a chair. I knit the truth, I twist the lie, I wrap a tale as time goes by. Pulled apart, I still return. What ties your fingers, story, and burn?

I stand in the desert, ancient and grand, Built by human hands, yet I seem so planned. With a square base and sides that rise to a point, I’ve watched centuries pass at history’s joint.

A boar without balls A garden tool that carries alls You probably know me as a word with a compounding name I too learned, learned something new with this game.

I’m not a flame, but I waver. Not a signal, but I blink. I exist only by refusing to stay still. What am I?

My head is full of fingers, that you drag across the ground. They pull the dead from the bed you tread, with a scraping, swooshing sound. If I lie dormant, belly up, with my fingers to the sky, Your lesson is learned, foot to head, I return, it’s ‘name of the season’ time.