I never spoil, though ages pass me by. Made without hands, yet crafted with care. I come from flowers, but I’m not a bloom, and once I’m taken, the makers must work twice as hard.

I can be any color but. I have no race I can decay but never die

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.