if you have a windless august, what precious thing are you left with?

I fall with no wound, yet I bury the land, A fleeting dominion of bone-white command. I silence the forest, I soften the stone, But fade into nothing when warmth claims its throne. What am I?

Every living being needs it, yet it is often said to be for the dead Every living being experiences it, yet none are conscious for it Many living beings avoid it despite desiring it

I sleep in the day, My skin looks like leather, I hit balls far away, My wings don't have feathers.

The ebb and flow controlled by the moon, or substance to clean your pantaloons