The books don’t mind the chatter, but readers often do. When voices wander just too far, someone will whisper this to you.

I am named for a fruit but am not found on vines. A blend of five bark-born and seed-shattered minds. I capture the autumn though I am not a tree, and millions will queue for a latte of me.

Fans are pretty great during these hot summer days but air conditioners are even

I live where steady fails, too quick to hold and too bright to trust. A flame may borrow me, an old screen may show me, and your eye may catch me before I am gone. I am not quite darkness, not quite light, only the restless space between.

I’m a cloud that never floats in the sky, A sugary dream that quickly says goodbye. I’m spun into colors, fluffy and bright, A carnival treasure under the lights. I melt away with just one bite, A little bit of magic, a sugary delight. What am I?