The Wheelbarrow

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