I sit on the cold pavement of the drive
surrounded by
tools,
wishing a third
hand to hold the braces
while I work
the bolts.
Fix it, there’s
joy in good tools.
When this
wheelbarrow began its decay
I bought another,
Bigger, with two
wheels, and a plastic bed.
Why try to recover?
Save it, there’s
purpose left.
I took it
apart, cut new wood braces,
painted the steel
bed.
But for a wheel
and new bolts it was set,
yet lost in the
shed.
Find it, there’s
use in the pieces.
I would notice
the collection of parts
on the shed floor,
Waiting for me
to finish, make it whole,
make it work once
more.
Finish it,
there’s always need for tools.
A trip to buy
bolts, order a new wheel,
oil the thirsty
wood,
Cut old bolts
and wrestle parts into place,
the tool now stood.
Build it, there’s
growth in the process.
The fix defies
the death of disposal.
Building from
discards
allows a
longevity of purpose
to which we
aspire.
Create it, there’s
a whole in the parts.
There are years
left in this wheelbarrow now.
I’ve made it complete.
The lines of
the braces are not so true
But sturdy like
me.
Use it, there’s
joy in good tools.
©Maria Amodei
Feb 2016