A misleading name for fans of this food, I sound like one kernel, though that is not true. Instead I fall from an oak tree, and squirrels often gather me.

I may be small, but hold so much, a face, a memory, a loving touch.

Cold-hearted sculptor, shaping with transparent elegance, I crack under pressure and melt in warmth.

There’s never enough of me in your closet.

I have crowned heroes, Decorated generals, Sold illusions, And clarified lies. Some chase me their entire lives. Some earn me for a job well done. Some print me beside conditions they hope you'll ignore. Yet every morning, One of my kind rises without applause. What am I?