By Abigail Taylor

When I feel out of control, I return to material.
The frayed fibre of my linen shirt,
the worn old mules in which I’ve dragged my feet,
the warm clay vessel that holds my coffee
and was formed by hand by my friend down the street.
I reach for a book with raised inky letters
and pages that smell like a century’s worth of hands.
I brush back fine brown locks of hair
which make new room for coarse silver strands.

© Abigail Taylor, 2026.