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 stitch, I point, I tremble, I sing. I mend torn cloth, guide the lost, and whisper when you’re low on fuel. Sharp, restless, small, I pierce before I heal. Who am I?

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?

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.