I HAD A DREAM ABOUT A SCARECROW

A face of faded grey. Staring down at the cracked soil.
Clothes sprouting holes as the crows pecked at it.
It was being eaten by what it feared the most.



The field was left unplanted.



I felt their beaks as if on my skin.
Each one reminding me of what I had staked below.



But it was not me who had planted it.
My grip was too strong to feel what had grown.
Its vibrant roots stitched by a careful hand.
A new posture staring kindly, waving green at the crows.