The Scarecrow

Mike Elms

Autumn leans against returns the land cannot yield.
The scarecrow dreams of rain.
Stitch without thread, thoughts weave
and dart like swallows along the cornice.
I want to walk in and find
a woman bathing, soap on her long arms,
a finger lost on one hand, a secret
you must ride from dusk to daybreak
on the dry-farmed high plains of her heart
to hear. Here is her basket for weeping,
made from the full hand made into her fist.
Sometimes a door-slam says it all.
Sometimes a walk in the dark nowhere alone
can refresh your conscience or spur
oaths so unappealing you don’t feel
any better if you keep them or not.
A woman crying in her bath goes to bed
with wet hair. Her dreams give her little rest.
It is my bath she is in, but no
explanation is necessary, really.
Two people can lead somewhere without any point.
I excuse myself and wander
the stale rooms of my life for years.
No one knocks on the door.
It begins to rain and doesn’t stop.
When lightning strikes, I look
out the window and the scarecrow is gone.