Porches and shes

Stay cool, she says,
with a smile, the crows feet extending down to the bone.

If writing is your apple, she almost winces, then go ahead
and do it, she says in a sing-song chant.

On the back porch, in a plastic chair, I wonder:
At what cost do you hold in it?

Good writing, she continues, is halfway between
hold-it-in and let-it-out

Halfway between the skids and the stars,
don't shape, don't make
and just let it flow through you.

This makes no sense at all.
So you sit, think,
and it washes you like rain.