I am trying to compose a blog about my husband. He is feeling a little left out and pointed out that I haven't blogged about him in while. While I am trying to compose my thoughts, enjoy this poem. It is from NPR's Writer's Almanac. It reminds me of my husband and my dad although I am pretty certain that neither of them has found poetry in small engine repair. At least not consciously that is.
Our Sundays are given voice By the small engine repairman, Whose fingers, stubby and black, Know our mowers and tractors, Chainsaws, rototillers, Each plug, gasket and valve And all the vital fluids. Thanks to him our lawns Are even, our gardens vibrant, Our maples pruned for swings, The underbrush whacked away. "What's broke can always be fixed If I can find the parts," He says as he loosens a nut, Exposes the carburetor, Tinkers and tunes until To the slightest pull on the cord The engine at once concurs. Let him come into our homes, Let him discipline our children, Console and counsel our mates, Adjust the gap of our passions, The mix of our humors: lay hands On the small engine of our days.