An old book about citrus would contain much of me.

Bumblebees right by the sea? You've got that right! I'm a tree!

I am born from labor that never sleeps, Spun without hands, yet finely keeps. Once soft as air, yet strong in weave, I dress the rich and catch deceived. Named for smoothness, prized for sheen, What am I that slips between?

From creatures ancient, I now reside dark, and deep. I flow to wake machines from sleep. I’m slippery and smooth, I do my part, but without me, things fall apart.

I stretch without walls, hold games, crops, and silent force. I can be crossed, studied, or felt, yet I stay when nothing stands.