Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Thursday Morning, Early, with Fog

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The fog is so thick I could build a set of stairs
with it. Or a room, right in the middle

of the pasture. We hear the turkeys nearby, and we quiet,
waiting for them to cut paths in the vapor and fly blindly away.

In the driveway, this newly formed nebula,
you wave your arm around, mixing the tiny droplets

into swirls and wisps. I tell you that the fog is clouds,
and I’m not really sure of the science, but it sounds right

and looks right, and the things that I tell you still hold so much
weight. If we could see from above, from the top

of our small hills (mountains once, tall and snowy as the Rockies),
we could jump and then bounce right back up.

But I won’t jump. At least not today. I can’t ever lose sight of you:
damp, and in danger of being swallowed by the grey.


Barbara Costas-Biggs is a poet whose work has previously appeared in The Oyez Review, Compose, the Pikeville Review, Four Ties Lit Journal, and others. She has an MLIS from Kent State University, and after years as working as a public librarian, now enjoys the quiet of a law library. She and her husband live in Eastern Kentucky on an organic farm. She is the mother of two young boys, Jack and David.


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Love this. "The things I tell you still hold so much weight"...what a wonderful way to describe the wonder that is early childhood.
The last 2 lines really touched me. She. They are babies we watch every move but it doesn't seem long before they are off on their own adventures. Nice poem. Thanks.