I am made of wood, stacked high, I help make fire on cold nights.

I have no peaks to scale and no valleys to hide, just a carpet of grass where the horizons collide.

I am proof that great things can come from great pressure. A small magnifying glass can be used to show my worth, Lavoisier used a giant one to render it void. Many of these will be given next month - February.

I am the sky's unwritten apology, a million quiet signatures falling at once. I blur the world to reveal it, and end what I touch so it may begin again. What am I?

With a coat made of whispers and a dance of cautious grace, I roll into a fortress when danger finds my face. Forest dweller with spines of lore, I wander the twilight, seeking more.