I am a library with no shelves, a flock that never lands. I drink oceans, then wander weightless. I paint mountains with shadows, hide the sun, and speak in thunderless whispers. Touch me and I vanish; name me and I rain answers. I travel as a ceiling, yet have no floor. Born of breath. Always above.

In earth's embrace, I dig deep and true, A symbol of luck, in card games too, I carve the path where seeds go deep, When speaking plainly, call a me a me.

Stubborn souls choose to die on me, a movie title claims I see, a famous song named after me, I seem to roll endlessly.

To move somewhere especially quick, Or an animal’s foot that is protectively thick.

I may be small, I may be tall, I live where raindrops barely fall. I hold my water, spines like lace, a prickly plant that owns its space.