The Scarecrow

Mutely standing in a field of 
fallow stubble, bending on the loam,
one’s mind is a business of 

musing the morning sun to rise.
Bold mice scurry through holes in boots,
tickling would-be toes of would-be feet

and climbing through knees of overalls
that, overall have seen brighter days.
Sparrows puff from red flannel seams--    

brown-feathered breath calling to 		
starling hands that wish to rub pale straw
moths from hollow sockets that stare

the stars from the sky.  One has hopes of scaring
someone--anyone--and listens without ears to hear
all that is not there and the one thing that is.

...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...
...with all due credit to Wallace Stevens...
...hopefully he's not rolling in his grave at this...

13 thoughts on “The Scarecrow

  1. I also like your autumnal take on the Wallace Stevens Snow Man. Your version has two lines that I love:

    “musing the morning sun to rise”, and the visceral image of “hollow sockets that stare the stars from the sky”. There’s nothing more solitary than that. Just as the Snow Man, being “nothing himself” stares at the nothing that is, your scarecrow’s hollow sockets conjure an infinitude of deep space loneliness.

    Inventive and a good tribute to the original.

    Liked by 1 person

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