I shine in shades of golden sun, a birthstone for November’s run. I’m not a quartz, though often frail.

I’m baked by the dozen, stacked on a plate, and gone before anyone admits to taking the last one.

Dances across the kitchen floor, To wipe away the spills. Drinks up puddles by the door, And clean with soapy thrills

I march without feet across invisible shores, I rattle the glass and I echo through doors. Though born of a collision, a whisper, or scream, I travel through matter or vanish like steam. Peaks are my mountains and troughs are my vales, Drawn on a screen like the curves of white sails. I carry the music, the thunder, the word, Felt by the body before I am heard.

I have chocolate chips for spots, a golden-brown coat, and a bad habit of falling apart when dunked in milk.