Guest Poet Clarence Thompson
In a field nearby I see a man
with painted smile and plastic eyes
standing like a scarecrow.
(And like a scarecrow the living things
no longer notice him.)
His stone wall thrown down by the wind,
the fearless weeds eat up his land
like fire and he is unmoved.
Late autumn twilight chills his skin,
an early snow is coming on
and need is the seed stored in his barn.
Is it just the dew, or is it tears,
an awakening, a cry for help
I see in his scarecrow eyes?
Clarence Thompson's questions:
1. How well does the scarecrow metaphor work?
2. Is this poem effective in forming a vivid picture? Any suggestions?
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