APRIL 29, 2008


Stuffed into old clothes, strung up in glaring sunlight

Left isolated, a point of interest only for birds

Pecking at the flesh with sharp beaks breaking stitches

Over old wounds, scars from another lifetime,

Straw sprays into amber fields waving,

Wind punishes fragile wheat from chaff, scattering

Seeds onto scorched ground smelling fertile with decaying leaves,

An aching stillness whispers, “Spring”, deep into an open field

As button black eyes focus transfixed on passers by, seeing

Nothing but birds dropping in, freshly turned earth

Rich with anticipation: life in death, struggling between

Seeds, fruit and living again, against blue skies.


© 2008 Maribeth Schlobohm

All Rights Reserved













SCARECROW [Maribeth Schlobohm]4-29-08 ~POEM          1


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