Flakes fall Settled dust Gone with the wind Not of a season, but of a seasoned person

Choose this one, not that. Not pots, tops, or post. Stop's not where I'm at, and it's not spot, at most.

In the cupboards I'm found, my patterns are sure to charm her. I'm stepped on the ground, or on a charming knight's armor.

Depending on who you ask, I can be a cold projectile, I can be a cocktail, or I can make a situation become graver the longer it lasts. What am I?

I’m narrow, I’m nimble, I cut through the tide, with paddle in hand, a lone rider glides. I read the same forward as I do behind, what am I that floats on waves so wide?