I worship an Italian dinner that levitates. You might call me a...

I cut the gold from Sif’s fair hair, then paid it back with craft and care. I shaped a storm in hammer’s form, through trick and wager, slyly borne. And from a sprig both soft and slight, I stole away the god of light.

I rise without feet from grounded stone, Yet bow to none though I stand alone. I carry passage, but hold no door, And whisper weight from shore to shore.

I’m sweet by name, but not by taste, A thousand mounds spread out in haste. Brown in summer, green in rain, Tourists climb to see my domain.

I often come when least expected, linking thoughts once unconnected. Before the plan or thing you do, I’m the first small spark breaking through.