When the scarecrow was new,
He wore an old shirt of my father’s,
A pair of khakis from Goodwill,
A pair of shoes from Salvation
While his head full of rags
Was held by the strings
Of his neck. He didn’t complain
When the tractor finished the rows
Of corn and he was left alone
To watch the green sprouts rise.
Growing taller by the day 
They held up green hands 
In supplication, whether to the sun 
Or the stars we never knew

As necks grew long, flowers
Of tassels misted a powder
Blown by the wind and each one
Became pregnant with something
That looked to us like joy.
The scarecrow watched over 
His congregation, even as wind
And storms tore at his clothes
And the crows grew to know 
His indecisive guardianship, 
Persisting on his cross of sticks 
As lightning played in the air