WHAT the SCARECROW SAW
Beneath the sky where storm clouds race,
A strawman stands in tattered grace.
An old coat holds his straw-stuffed heart,
Guarding fields where shadows dart.
His burlap face, with stitches worn,
Watches seasons, weathered, torn.
Crows may laugh, yet still he sways,
Rooted firm through smoky haze.
Scarecrow, murmur, tell the tale,
Of winds that howl and rains that wail.
Point the way, through dusk and dawn,
A silent guide till night is gone.
No voice to cry, no tears to weep,
Yet dreams he holds in straw-filled sleep
Of fields alive, of skies that hum,
Of harvests reaped when Autumn's come.
Since ancient times his spirit flies,
Carried forth in brooding skies.
Scarecrow stands, both proud and meek,
Telling tales the winds bespeak.
Scarecrow, murmur, heed the breeze,
Sing of winter when all will freeze.
Through the gales hold your ground,
A silent king with a woolen crown.
Rob Firchau
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