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.

Large, small, abstract or concrete, there's a word for everything, even a word for ...

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?