I start with the end of a cough My middle is the sound of the second of women I finish with the middle of the nation What am I?

We take and take from womb to grave But never have our fill The more we try to hold the thing The weaker grows the will But give it to another and A life you shall refill

I am the final breath of a roaring fire A grey, soft ghost that cannot tire I am light enough to fly on the wind Yet I mark the place where the tree has sinned I am both the end of the flame And a tall strong wood that shares my name

In a knitting basket, soft and warm, A gentle hug on a chilly morn. From sheep's coat, it takes its form, Keeping you cozy through the storm.

A painter of life with a gentle touch, where branches wear gowns of color, and whispers of spring sing without a voice.