My Amber

Amber, you see, is not a game.
There are no points, or pieces,
And no events are ever the same
(Though never we quest for magic fleeces).

My Amber is more than a lump or a rock,
With a small bug trapped inside.
What once came from a tree, passing the clock,
Is not the Amber in whom I confide.

Amber is not a missing child,
Blaring lights on a light board on the street.
She's instead really rather mild,
And I find her to be quite neat.

What my Amber gives me
Is a song to sing,
Because my sweet, precious Amber
Is my everything.