I can be ordinary or ornate Pile me up I love to be useful Got some gossip I'm your go to Forewarning when the fiddle plays The spoon and I are out of here.

I hold your shirts, I hold your sheets, out in the sun and summer breeze. With little wooden pins I grip, to stop your laundry from a slip. What am I?

I keep many voices, yet never a tongue, My lips stay shut till my hinges are sprung. I stand in a crowd or alone on a shelf, But vanish from sight when you dive in yourself. I whisper you worlds made of ink into mind, Hide futures and memories, all neatly aligned. I stay in one place while you wander and roam, And close with a sigh when you carry me home.

I rise without walking, yet set without rest, I burn without breathing and glow at your behest. I paint time in shadows on stone and on sand, But never once touch what I warm with my hand. I hide from your eyes when I stand overhead, Yet rule every color when evening is red. I’m one among billions, yet first in your sight, What am I, that you circle to borrow my light?

I am laid out before you, yet I do not sleep. I carry your steps, and the secrets you keep. I can be tiled, polished, or carpeted soft, Always holding you up as you gaze up aloft.