Connections words do not make.
Bereft of touch, they are fake
Similes for the tepid mind,
Thoughtless, breathless, blind
As a worm working the ground,
Shaping caves without a sound.
We need saws, calloused thumbs,
A pickup's metallic thrum,
Two-by-fours, shingles, nails,
A nephew's muddy, red pail
Hauling blocks caked in clay
Dumped at your feet to raise
As a wall, a roof, a home,
The line, the stanza, the poem.