The Scarecrow

(A poem by Little One, just-turned-10)

Her head came from a supply store, her body is borrowed, her mouth came from Michael’s.

But a Scarecrow’s life is all her own.

Her hair is blonde, her eyes are hazel, her mouth is brown pipe cleaner, her pants and gloves are white, and her shirt is green.

She is special.

It’s not every day you talk to the birds, chat with the grass, and have the wind whistle to you.

This takes a certain peace.

The birds, the squirrels, they are kind, and they love the Scarecrow for what she is.

To hear the birds “WHOOSH” overhead, the chipmunks “CRACK-CRACK-CRACK” on the ground, crunching on leaves and branches as it scurries, is quite unique.

The Scarecrow has sat through many, many, many months on that post in the garden, watching the butter sun and the milky moon rise and set, rise and set.

She doesn’t care that someone could take her apart.  She won’t think, “Oh my, how rude!” or “Wow! What wilted white daisies they are!”

As fast as the cheetah who made her, the Scarecrow knows she can easily be taken apart in 3 minutes flat, and she doesn’t mind.  She doesn’t mind she’s not real.  Or that her body parts aren’t hers.

The Scarecrow is thinking her thoughts ....

.... And soon birds will be coming by.