I appear when the world turns white, Crafted by hands in the cold’s delight. I vanish when the sun draws near, Leaving only water and cheer. What am I?

Soft landing spots for airborne thoughts, these playful cushions invite gravity with a plop, often found in game rooms or lazy corners, defying the rigidity of chairs.

Vikings blew on me, the Greek drank from me and rhinos wear me.

A thousand cranes take flight from a single square, where gentle creases whisper tales of art, and paper dreams fold into life.

My first part follows the bank, my second part holds letters. Both parts together gather your thoughts and other jottings.