Scarecrow
The scarecrow's hollow face,
Swaying back and forth,
In rushing wind and beating sun,
Its shirt overstuffed,
And its sewn-on smile empty,
So real to winged visitors,
Yet so heartless, emotionless,
Fake an insignificant to those who could tell,
But its burlap head and worn material,
Hold a story of blazing afternoons,
Freezing nights,
Early sunrise and late sunsets,
Its sightless eyes could yet see it all,
When those who could feel,
Had no time to hear the birds chirp.