The ScareCrow's Mistress

And what would she say if I told her, the harvest was mine all along.
That scarecrows save no garden, from weeds now long overgrown.
She’d name me a poisonous vulture, awaiting my prey with greed.
To pluck the seeds that spill in winter but never receive the spring.

She’d banish me from her garden, suddenly sullen and gray.
She’d thrash away at his stuffing – demanding he pull up his face.
Into his bag she’d pummel, all of her hunger and pain
- as grainy guts spilled before her, she’d laugh and prop him in place.

And what does he remember? From summer’s long days in the sun.
A dry and sweltering season, absent tender - toils undone.
He’d watched the stalks as they withered, cracking earth at thirsty feet.
He’d dreamed of salvation in thunder – as it rolled in from the east.

It was in that instant he bade me, to make haste and light by his side.
As he hung there heavy and dripping – from showers that poured in the night.
And his mistress she marched before us – searching with shovel in hand.
Digging in deeper and deeper, seeking salvation in sand.
Then a crack and a bolt in an instant - grabbed onto and shook the steel blade,
Pulling her down with the garden, to feed the bed she’d made.

And in the twilight we surveyed – the garden glowed still in our sight,
And the scarecrow and the sparrow, flew fast into a new night.