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.