The sun stands still, though never at rest, lingering long in the north or south crest. One day stretches, the other grows small, a turning of light that governs us all.

Golden rows in fields of green, a sunlit dance in summer's sheen. Whispered tales of harvest's horn, a staple born since time has worn.

I’m large compared to you, but to my bigger siblings, small. I LET, them be the LAND, I’m more than just one, after all. Im keyed in southern tip, though I don’t lock. I’m around atoll. My homonym is threaded through on shoes, so you don’t fall.

In the hush between day and night, 'the blue hour,' as I am told, A gentle cloak wraps the world. Painting horizons with the early whispers of young dreams, And stars' first promised waltz.

Smaller than the mountain. Bigger than the mound. And where are you when you get to the tip?