Cora, Borrowing Time

The light comes through these boards.
and makes the rooms look gold. Other times
gaps let in the winter wind
like we’re living in a sieve.

And when the storms howl,
the walls around us groan
as though they will collapse.

Worry is the rope that binds us,
ties my belly into knots.
It's hard enough to keep a house
together, harder without a house.

I've grown used to this old pine
and know each knot by heart,
each place the roof can't hold the rain.

Next, I guess we'll go by my father's place,
gather late apples before we go
so we don’t show up empty-handed.