My subjects are honest they say what they are, A buzz, a splash, a rumble from afar. This strange magic when sound becomes word, Yet my own spelling trips every tongue.

The warden of days, watched, it slows in a way. Constantly pointing out when to go or to stay. A circular motion, arms of three on display. Your cuckoo grandfather, ringing hourly plays.

At the end of a line, a flat diamond, a ray. In the streets, a rolling board, flipping a tray. On the ice, a carving and spinning display. A way to glide by, barely making your way.

Keep it on your head, or use it to clean the floor, just don't put it back up to when wet.

Fly me and you’ll lose a friend, Yet I am happiest on the wind. I pull against what holds me tight, A rebel shape against the light.