I hold no clock, yet track it all, From winter’s hush to summer’s call. I never move, yet days slip through, In ordered lines I show to you. My face will change, but I remain, A steady guide through loss and gain. I mark your plans, your hopes, your due, And quietly reset for you. I carry numbers, neat and tight, Marching forward day and night. Weeks will gather, months will fade, In tidy boxes I have made. You hang me high or keep me near, Replace my skin each passing year. Though I grow old, I’m born anew, A cycle dressed in different hue. What am I, both full and bare, A grid of time laid out with care?

I rise where footsteps fade to dust, A silent keeper built on trust. No voice have I, yet still I speak Of hands long gone and power at peak. A shard of earth that dares the sky, A question cast in stone: But why? Am I a marker, grave, or throne, Or something meant to stand alone? Four sides I often choose to show, With edges straight and tip aglow. At dawn I stretch, at dusk I fall, A shifting shadow over all. Not quite a tower, not quite a spear, Yet both ideas may linger near. I pierce the heavens without a sound, A rooted spike in sacred ground. What am I, unmoved yet bold, A story carved in ages old?

Concord, Cotton Candy, Centennial, Champagne. Welch's, Kool-Aid, Purple. What flavor am I?

I wedge my hook to force locked doors, And easily rip up nails and boards. I sound like a bird but I don't make a chirp, When my leverage is used, a home is usurped.

I prefer mine not above me, as hydrogen made them deadly. If you go to music instead, I prefer theirs Led instead.