Shell of stone with tongue of silk, I hide a secret none can milk. I open only when I choose, Guarding pearls the oceans bruise. Silent at the water’s rim Name what I am, tight-locked and slim.

I'm a cold area, a frozen wasteland with six letters to keep it cool. Nothing grows, under this heavy weight, often compared to a feather, if you swap the second for an o.

Fire flares, fierce and fearsome, over fields of fantasy. Mythical monarch of misty mountains, soaring silently, yet stirring stormy skies.

My cousin is juicy and sweet, a favorite of summer picnics and barbecues. I'm more of an indoor type, sometimes served with cured ham and cheese.

There once was a logger, they say, Who shunned the machinery of today. He prefered no motors to shout, just a blade to swing about, and working his muscles this way.