Swish swish. Scratch scratch.
My father and I rake
the grey Sunday away
into a mountain of leaves.
It’s no Blue Ridge Mountain
but yellow and orange and red.
I dance along behind him
with my little rake,
with my purple wind-breaker
zipped up to my chin.
I can’t wait
to climb the mountain
and look out onto my home.
“Raking” was printed in Crossroads, No. 8 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
Get the paperback
