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.