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.

I sit at the peak of a mountain and the head of a list, but if your child spins me, I never want to quit. What am I?

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?

Depending on who you ask, I’m very lucky. Worn only by some of the fiercest warriors and runners. I’m nailed on, not tied tight. I protect without covering skin. I face the ground, yet bring good fortune.

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