by Damian Johnson
Over hills rendered a hellacious red, where cobwebs wet with dew wed, briars in cryptic bloom
form—together, a sort-of noose. This view. The sky, with bits of blue and wads of white—at a
glance, this glossy landscape globe, is a breath-taking one, near and overwhelming. A hint of
orange lies among an olive canopy. One limb twinkles a sublime lemon yellow. Chains on the porch
swing rattle, odd decibels, mostly undecipherable, descend—stairway to a bird’s mouth. Years of
yards like these. Years of shadows turning outward from the caverns of trees.
Damian Johnson is from small, rural Palmersville, Tennessee. With little to do aside from spend time with family and friends—if they’re close—he finds inspiration in the nature around him. He loves writing about it. It’s now a regularly occurring facet in many forms of his writing, as it is, with this poem.