I bind it and it walks. I loose it and it stops.
Double my number, I'm less than a score. Half of my number is less than four. Add one to my double when bakers are near. Days of the week are still greater, I fear.
Sometimes I am loud. And viewed with distaste. Poke out my 'eye', then I'm on the front of your face.
It stands upright and can be quite grand. Its secret is not hidden but right at hand. What is it?
How can you burn an apple, blueberry, rose and pumpkin without leaving any ashes but retaining the smell of it?
Big as a saucepan, deep as a cup, Even a river can't fill it up. What is it