(with apologies to Wallace Stevens and his Snowman)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.