Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Sharp Star

One comment

The year's first snow:
white and gray feathers on the grass.
Inside me, the wing
of your soft body unfolds.

All the herbs, indoors for winter,
pull toward the window,
their stems turned veins
in the absence of light.

So many green things to show you;
white and black things, too:
the fierce, hard dazzle
of winter stars.

The distance is closing
between us, between that clean sky
and this muddied winter yard.
Between the stars and the ground.

How, child, will you come?
Like a stem bent to light?
Or like a sharp star,
bright and burning?


Kendra Langdon Juskus is a freelance writer and editor and the associate poetry editor for BOAAT. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Spalding University, and her work has appeared in Fifth Wednesday Journal, Ruminate, and City Creatures: Animal Encounters in the Chicago Wilderness. Originally from New York’s Hudson River Valley, she lives in Durham, North Carolina, with her husband and two young sons.


More from



Gorgeous.
Comments are now closed for this piece.