I hold what’s wild, yet I do not bite, with bars of steel or woven might. I do not move, but I confine, a prison small by grand design. You’ll find me where the songbirds sing, or where the lion’s roars might ring.

Go ahead and break me, I’ll still work. Waxy blue skies, gritty brown dirt. Use me for stick figures if that’s your thing. Create a rainbow and I’ll really sing.

I am a form unbound by blood, A common shape and name. In trees and rocks and depths and mud, A genetic rhyming game. Pinching grips and creeping cancers, Brush some butter on your answers

Sometimes I have strings, sometimes I have gills. I can be an instrument, or something you put on the grill.

I appear in a smattering of tiny bits, but I am not a form of precipitation's spritz. You might see me in the morning, but I'll soon call it quits.