If you haven’t yet, watch rain pick up speed
rushing down the windows
of a borrowed house-
rolling waves of drops against the roof
turning the lake surface – also borrowed-
from gloss to matte while you
sip badly brewed coffee from a 5 cup
pot- this is yours-
while outside pooled water boils
with the impact of emergent qualities of water molecules
-these - like air molecules - are also borrowed -
that joined forces in the branches
of the old pine tree- not yours- anyone’s?-
The floor boards pixelated beside the porch chairs
periodically filled with friends- borrowed, affection
for someone, borrowed- the hour
borrowed- the day- attention, borrowed- solid ground - air currents, moisture
and sound – borrowed
language and silence- borrowed
knowing this- yours.

Robin Small lives in New Hampshire. She writes poetry, short and flash fiction, and has completed two novels. She does not like to stay indoors, or sit still, but is fond of long dead Russian writers, philosophy, quantum physics, running, biking, commas, and coffee. She is grateful for words in interesting arrangements that compensate for the epic failures of her adult life.