Fixing Things

I hear my Mom...a humming,
With notes not meant to sing.
I whisper, "What's you doing?",
She says, "I'm fixing things".

There's needle, thread, and scissors,
And colored bits of string.
She looks into my wondering eyes,
And says, "I'm fixing things".

The clock is all dismantled,
There's alot of twisty-springs.
Before I have a chance to speak,
She says, "I'm fixing things".

Our cooking kettle got a hole,
With rivet and with ring.
Mom put it on the stove again,
And said, "I've fixed the thing".

The bird-cage tipped up-side down,
The door...just wouldn't swing.
My Mom...she got the pliers and wire,
And made a brand-new hinge.

I know...when Mom is finished here,
And gone with God...our King.
She'll still be busy over there,
For God...just fixing things.


E.P. 1908 - 1989