sometimes we reap what we sow
|And what if this birdie 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 such greed.
To pluck seeds spilling in winter
but never receiving the spring.
She’d banish me from their 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 jab him and prop him in place.
And now what does he remember?
From summer’s long days in the sun.
A dry and sweltering season,
absent tending - toils undone.
He’d watched the stalks as they withered,
cracking earth at his thirsty feet.
He’d dreamed of salvation in thunder
as it rolled along from the east.
It was in that instant he bade me,
"little birdie come light by my side."
As he hung there heavy and dripping,
from showers that poured in the night.
And as it rained down upon us,
She'd marched 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 her steel blade,
Pulling her down with the garden,
to feed the dead bed that she’d made.
And in the twilight we surveyed
the garden burning so bright,
And the scarecrow and his mistress,
flew fast into a new night.