Round and round, I always go, Ending where I start, you know. Time, or wheels, or seasons, too. A turning path that’s old yet new.

I am born where melting snow runs free, Carved by stone long before me. I have no legs, yet wear a shore, I cut the land and shape its floor. By banks I am held, by bends I steer, I carry silt from far to near. I lose my name when sea tides quiver. What am I?

You see me when a storm comes in, and when I leave, my name describes how quickly I go. I always come with an echo, although the echo can be near or far. One can tear everything apart but I am also used to hold things together. What am I?

I can be felt, but never grasped. I can be heard, but never seen. I can be chased, but never caught. I can be calm, yet still cause ruin. What am I?

Silky, still, sublime; Artwork abandoned, alone, Covering corners.