Your car is well tuned if you can stop on me. I am extremely common and abundant when I am a dozen.

I begin as a whisper that crawls on ground, Then sleep in a cradle where silence is found. I wake painted bright, with sky in my sight, A living soft question that dances in light. I sip from flowers, I drift but don’t stay, A fleeting small poem that flutters away. I’m born from becoming, from stillness to fly, Tell me my name as I pass you by.

Dogs famously do it, Humans wear it, For style or through misuse, I become holy.

I have legs but don't walk I hold you steady

Though not part of a tree, you could say it’s a log. Trophy logs made of gold are hung on artists walls. You can speak on or off it, drop a needle atop it, Or break it, just make sure that Guinness can watch it.