Pump

I built a tiny machine.
It's intricate in design;
small and ornate,
Russian to a few.

I made it to call out
when my voice won't carry.

There are lights upon it, too
to send signals lit like stars.

Parts of it are made
to dig into the Earth,
little hands and arms
working diligently.

The rock won't yield very far
since I'm no architect or engineer.

It'll crackle and wimper in deep waters
too; I'm no good with bits or gears.

But it's something of mine
and it works well enough
for something made by someone
unknowledgeable in these things.