The Scarecrow

Golgotha’s watchman lives on an earth-driven pole
Singing a frightful song of spilling straw

No nuisance do beaks make on his crop while he stares
Tinder-dry under his wide-brimmed hat
Wrapped in Winter’s hand-me-downs

In time, like the fields surrounding, he’ll bow to Autumn’s hand, humbled
Folding when the blue-black cornrows have been plucked
When the land lies fallow and the tools are taken for oiling

Uprooted and untied from his cross, he rests emptily on the bales that bore him
Waiting for fresh seedlings to reach up to the heavens, catching the crow eyes
Waiting to be made whole again
Waiting for the resurrection

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