I carry my house upon my back, Yet never complain when I stay on track. I move so slow, yet win the race, With wrinkled skin and steady pace.

I dwell where giants stand apart, a lower place with quiet heart. Where waters run and wild things roam, between the peaks I make my home.

I start with the end of a cough My middle is the sound of the second of women I finish with the middle of the nation What am I?

I am the final breath of a roaring fire A grey, soft ghost that cannot tire I am light enough to fly on the wind Yet I mark the place where the tree has sinned I am both the end of the flame And a tall strong wood that shares my name

In a knitting basket, soft and warm, A gentle hug on a chilly morn. From sheep's coat, it takes its form, Keeping you cozy through the storm.