I’m born when giants meet their end, yet even light can’t escape my bend. I warp both time and stretch out space, with singularity at my base. No surface have I, no solid face, but cross my edge and there’s no retrace.

I sleep on sand and sing with the sea, hold me close to hear whispers from me. I wear the ocean's coat of white, and host a spiral that’s snug, smooth and light.

I'm not a star, yet I shine bright, with borrowed beams of solar light. I grow an icy tail when I draw near, the Sun’s warm breath I almost fear. I visit from the outer dark, a fleeting guest, a glowing spark.

I’m not a house, yet creatures stay, buzzing, hopping through the day. Im a green blanket with flowers spread, Where clouds drift soft above my head.

I move, but barely, slow and wide, with secrets 'neath my muddy tide. The cypress leans to touch my face, where gators glide in silent grace. Neither river, lake, nor sea, what Southern soul could I then be?