I sit inland and mirror mountains. Rivers come to me; some leave, some don’t. My waves are quiet, my winters solid. A few of my kind are called Great. What am I?

I’m argued over more than I’m eaten, a fruit by truth, a vegetable by habit.

Red and small I burn if you fan me you see me grow before your eyes. I can be brushed away after the flames glow. I have no flame, but I still carry the burn. What am I?

Three: equality, golf 'okay' Three more: to perish, waste away Saltine seeker, hear and say

Indoors, but outdoors, encased by walls. Open sky, plant life, adjacent to halls. Not a greenhouse or the front or the back yard. The prosecution rests; don't think too hard.