In the alchemist's garden, a mystic veil of the blossom, it whispers secrets to passing winds, a delicate shield to the heart of nature's creation.

Round and round the sun we go, each day marked in a row. My pages turn, seasons flow, keeping track of time's gentle show.

A state of being, From flower or tree Or mountains or plant To recall them all I can't With me you can see tall Or not well at all Though at any rate, You probably can't walk straight Without me, crushing pressure Or thoughts fresher

Thousand upon thousands of grains am I, beneath the sun and open sky. I line the shores and deserts wide, where small hands build, and waves decide.

I lay dormant waiting for a prize i don’t deserve. Some keep me as company some dont. I like to whisper to those that understand me. What am I?