I was born from a tree, but I have no leaves. I have a sole but no spirit, and a tongue but cannot speak.

I hang outside but never fall, I’m not a room, yet part of all. With rails to guard and views so wide, People stand on me outside.

High above on swaying trees, I grow where warm winds ride the breeze. Though called a nut, I wear that wrong, In halves, I mimic hoofbeats’ song.

I have many stamps but no letters, what am I?

In spaces we dwell, I bring charm and flair, a touch of style here, a splash of color there. I'm the quiet artist in your room's attire.