Still Holding

I was made to turn, to bear,
To hum beneath a world of care.
Not center stage—just one small part,
A cog within a greater heart.

They built, they climbed, they left, they ran.
The plans moved on. But here I stand.
A rusted ring, a chain grown tight,
Still holding in the fading light.

They see decay, a thing forgot,
But I remain—though others do not.
Some roles aren’t grand, or lined in gold.
Some just endure. Some just hold.

The trees don’t ask what I’ve been through.
The sky just shifts from green to blue.
But I remember every strain—
The weight, the quiet, and the rain.

And still I wait—not for repair,
But for someone to truly care.
To see not ruin, but resolve,
A strength the world won’t try to solve.

I’m not the story that you knew.
But I am one that still rings true.
So if you pause beneath this tree—
You’ll find your own reflection…
in me.

I took this photo during a photo walk with the Olympic Photo Club at Webster Woods yesterday evening. As we were wrapping up, I passed by this old gear—part of an art installation along the trail. I’d seen it before, but this time something about it stopped me.

It hung there so still, weathered and quiet, like it had a story it was keeping to itself. Not discarded, but not fully seen either. That feeling stayed with me—and became the heart of this poem.