I wait beneath your weary frame, A silent seat that knows your name. I soften nights and hold you still, Then greet the dawn with gentle skill. I do not dream yet guard your rest, A padded cloud that serves you best. What am I, soft and wide and kind, Where sleep can settle body and mind?

I twist as I rise and turn as I fall, A shape that keeps moving though staying small. Found in a shell or a staircase of stone, I curve through the air like I am being shown. I am not a circle, yet I share its grace, A path that keeps bending in the same little space. What am I, so winding and tight in my style, A shape that keeps turning with natural guile?

Full of tiny rigid hair, your body's first line of defense I bear. Without me you cannot taste, and I rest square on your face.

I have no hair, but I hold it in place, I frame the top of a smiling face. I can be a colorful plastic ring, Or a stretchy, soft, and fabric thing. I crown your head but I’m not a king,

I can leave sawdust on the floor, or everyone standing in perfect formation.