By Karissa Seibel
When they autopsy
the scarecrow,
they spill sunflower seeds and salt,
split apart a cotton heart
trodden with cobwebs,
steady - handed enough to keep the smile at least halfway in preservation.
When they autopsy
the scarecrow,
they aren’t bewildered with the withered pumpkin - rind ribs,
for what good nature survives
the seasons of isolation?
They do not catch their breaths
in the autumn winds,
try to ease their minds in the rich scenery.
They do not grieve the scarecrow,
nor do they spur a thought for its spirit,
but it is there at their side,
warding off the crows that wish to rob them of their harvest.
It whispers,
“Heroism is usually a solo dance, not without injury, but never failed to make me smile, for
how would you startle evil with anything less than happiness?
Breathe.
Open your eyes and look.
See my happiness morph through the changing earth and in your changing heart.”
And when they turn to leave,
a blur catches their eyes...
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