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Daniel Johnson: a poem



Fall

My father rakes the lawn,

and I am small. I kick and toss


the thin, dry season

while he works, the rake's


wide head a big black wing

unfurled, snaring leaves,


leaving the grass clear.

I cannot do things for myself.


I can do nothing but play,

and when my father throws


the rake aside, lifts me

under my arms, spins me,


and tosses me in the air,

I look down and see his face.


I look down and see his face. I have not come down.



Daniel Johnson is a writer from New Jersey. He’s a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at University College Cork, and he teaches at St. Michael’s College in Vermont. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in journals such as Southword, Literary Matters, TIMBER, and HAD.

1 comment

1 Comment


Guest
Jul 08, 2023

Beautiful

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