A finger pressed against the lips, a whisper barely heard. Sometimes a gesture says it all, sometimes I’m just one word.

I am born of a circle but broken in part, A shape in the heavens, and a baker’s fine art. I can tighten a bolt with an adjustable grip, Or cradle the tide where the dark waters slip. With many a street name, my curve is complete, Yet I fade into shadow and bow at your feet. What am I?

Cheap but loyal, dusty and worn, With you in heat, rain, and storm, You kick me off when you’re home, Yet I’m never left alone for long. What am I?

In crystal form, I sweeten life's brew, a delight to ants and a baker's muse. My grains perform a delicate dance, making bitter more palatable with just a glance.

At the start of the day you may throw me open, At the end of it you will draw me closed, I'm used to denote the final phase of your life, Or just the closing credits of a stage show