The Bench That Stayed

The nails bit in with a bitter clang,

wood groaned under my hands, but it stood.

Years it leaned, begged to give in,

to tip like a sigh and crumble slow.

I fixed it with hands raw and stubborn,

measuring the air, holding pieces in place

like promises not meant to break.

The wind tested it this morning—

a careless shove, a breath of cold.

It stayed.

Something I built, trembling but holding

against the pull of time and weight,

a small defiance beneath gray skies.