A circle in a circle on a sphere, the truth of what I am is very clear. The rings that surround me come in different shades, but are born not forged or made.

I’m not a woman though I hold many rings. I’m pretty round, not from this earth. I am also considered a giant. Who am I?

If I am long, your legs might ache, Know my turns or your life’s at stake. My form can be straight or a circle instead, To loop you all the way back to my head. My natural views may put you in awe. When I become steep, your breath I may draw.

I left no breath, no sound, no cry, Yet linger still where eons lie. Not born of ink, yet shaped in lore, pressed deep beneath the rocky floor. No mind recalls the form I cast, Yet stone remembers what could not last.

I appear in a bet, but I am not a guarantee. You might see me in the yard.