A backdrop—rows of reaching,
leafless oak trees—darkens
the field’s edge. Its young grass in
lowness, punctuated by bloomless wildflowers. Sunlight
and breeze graze their surface
like outstretched hands and
circle back to dry,
back to the field’s center,
where a scarecrow, unnatural,
stands guard. It has no helmet, no weapon.
No eyes or mouth painted on its canvas head. I walk
to its eyeless stare and breastplate
made of withered brass.
The armor’s patina weeps
green into the soil.
Hugging its shoeless
feet are sun-kissed, hairy weeds—
airy progeny of the first dandelions, white
and candid. Children of decomposition, nature pushing time
by creating who-ing homilies of soon-
to-be dead things.
Dandelions sprout too yellow—a distinctly different
shade than death. Rewind and