The hard feel of sometimes

Sometimes a writer has to
stop and feel
things with her hands. You know. Things like the sticky softness of hibiscus
pollen.
The wet fur of a soaped up
dog.
The velvet smooth of fine sanded
wood.

Sometimes a writer has
to stop and build
something tangible.
Enough
with the unseen and
eternal.
She just wants to hammer in
nails
and drill deep
holes
and mount a leveled
shelf,
the perfect width
for chapter books and model planes
and
superheroes.

Sometimes a writer needs the hard feel of
today to make real sense of the tangled buzz
of
invisible
prose.