I bind and mend with a sticky embrace, sealing secrets in a silent race. My roll spins round with adhesive grace, holding things in their rightful place.

A type of desk A Beatles song A Beatles album A Beatles movie

I am the final breath of a roaring fire A grey, soft ghost that cannot tire I am light enough to fly on the wind Yet I mark the place where the tree has sinned I am both the end of the flame And a tall strong wood that shares my name

You must hold me, or I may slip Untie me, if I must be quick If I am loose, I will be bold I may be silver, sometimes gold

A painter of life with a gentle touch, where branches wear gowns of color, and whispers of spring sing without a voice.