I'm black as night, but bring the light. I'm deep in the earth, a hidden might. Men dig for me, for power and heat, but break their backs in this dark retreat. What am I?

I stand in a waiting stack of brown and grain, A quiet stash for warmth through cold and rain. Split and gathered, I rest in a heap, Held for the fire that will wake from sleep. I am not a forest, though I come from the trees, I am not a flame, but I feed it with ease. What am I, so tidy and dry in my role, A collected reserve that can warm the whole

If cells surfed, or had hands to greet you with from afar, You could say they catch or do this.

I cover without hiding, leaving spaces where secrets may show. delicate and patterned, I dress edges, sleeves, and bows. Light as a whisper, yet detailed in design, I look finely woven, with openings by design.

A cold, sweet treat well suited for a hot summer day. Start with the person we are celebrating today, followed by an erudite way to point out the original author made a mistake. Finish with a French article.