I stand in a waiting stack of brown and grain, A quiet stash for warmth through cold and rain. Split and gathered, I rest in a heap, Held for the fire that will wake from sleep. I am not a forest, though I come from the trees, I am not a flame, but I feed it with ease. What am I, so tidy and dry in my role, A collected reserve that can warm the whole

I am black from head to toe. In Norse mythology, I am both memory and thought. Sometimes I’m an omen, in others good luck.

Before the boom, before the roar, I split the sky, then am no more.

I swirl without water, I dance without feet. I blindingly swallow the desert heat. I bury the tracks of the brave and the bold, And turn the bright daylight to gritty gold.

I have no voice, yet I roar. I have no hands, yet I strike. I have no body, yet I bring both life and ruin. What am I?