Sixteen of twenty four, its ancient designation, And twenty two of seven was a late approximation. Here to there, then there again, assuming here is central, It's a simple meditation, but the result is transcendental

I often have feathers, but never can fly, if I'm honest I tend to prefer those who lie; Your constant companion from the start to the end, when you need some support, on me you depend

Without the first letter, I become a shower Without rails, I will falter Change my last to L and you follow me on a hike Athletes do me every day to be better

On winter days so cold and dark, you'll be glad to see my mug. I came to you from the distant East, I'll stir you up or bring you peace. Even if you find me bland, you'll spill me to your friend.

I sound a bit like what a Wayward Son is bid to do A group of feathered fiends encircle high, and more accrue With lazy patience, hunting that which cannot even flee When nature sets the table for a feast composed of me