The Lonely Scarecrow
A hat of burlap, worn and frayed,
With buttons for eyes and a smile handmade.
His skin of cloth, stitched and worn,
His bones of wood, splintered and torn.
A shirt of plaid, its colors faded,
Stuffed with straw, his form created.
Sleeves hang loose with patches sewn,
A rustic figure, all alone.
He stands amid the winding rows,
Where shadows dance, and daylight slows.
Where golden stalks, like soldiers stand,
A silent sentinel of the land.
As dusk descends, feet drum the ground,
Echoing through the maze around.
Ghouls and goblins, wild and bright,
A fairy, a pirate, lost in delight.
He stands his guard, bound firm and tight,
With button eyes as still as night.
A witness to the joy he’ll never share,
Watching the world with his empty stare.
A crow arrives, with caw and glide,
Perching close, a friend by his side.
An unlikely pair, the fields they roam,
Scarecrow and Crow, finding a home.
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