A traveler diverging from a wooden spine, reaching out toward the sky, sometimes home to a chirping choir, yet always connected to the heart of a towering elder.

In different times this is how I put down my rhymes, I have keys but they open no locks, I have space but nowhere to put a box what am I?

I can hold your kitchenware, your collectibles, or, if you prefer, your politicians.

I stretch but never walk, hold outfits yet never wear them. I work best outdoors, hate rainstorms, and leave cloth hanging when my job is done. What am I?

It is often overlooked, With no purpose other than to fill space Yet it can lend charm to what would otherwise be emptiness