I'm considered a stone from heaven, and can even be imperial, a green treasure. Artists love carving me, and mothers name their daughters after me.

A concrete pit with water clear, A fabric field with sixteen spheres, A jackpot waiting to be won, A masked marvel with swords and guns, A descriptor of the eyes, What single word between us binds?

A hollow embrace for swirling spoons, cradling warmth and flavor. It dances in your hands at every meal, yet never makes a sound.

Twisting tales of woolen thread, a storyteller’s breath in a cozy bed. When needles dance, I weave my song, a colorful journey, both short and long.

I have no feet, but I can carry, eggs or apples, light or heavy. With a handle on top, I’m easy to hold, and with some woven care, I guard a lots treat at picnics so Im told