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Riddle: What am I?

What Am I?

Dry and cracked, yet gently swayed

by that which passes by, rarely stopping.

My pigment altered

with the turning of a blue orb.

Once every sun’s rotation,

I float to there from whence I came.

Brief cold, darkness, ice. Then…

recycled, I again am born,

now soft and flexible.

Rains I shelter you from.

Through natural materials,

I provide energy for one other.

In the bright, I give darkness.

I slowly die, annually, but

my existence soon over? No.

The cycle begins again!

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