Some keep ice, an Igloo’s nice. A cold front brings this air to life. A pillow’s other side at night. Too hot to eat? Wait for this to bite.

I climb and I twine, My fruits are eaten raw or dry. The juice from them is called like I, with one letter... doubled. What am I? Do you know or are you puzzled?

As it stands, I am paint made by water, melting beneath the first heat of light. Add a Y and dip a fry, a simple, tasty fast-food delight. Cold by nature, altered by your touch, this frozen name belongs to a famous snowman.

In darkness deep where whispers echo, nature sculpts her secret halls, a retreat for winged creatures and buried tales of old.

I fill the trough for beasts that graze, or flood your screen throughout the day. I keep things full in different ways, for hungry mouths or eyes that stay.