Scarecrow Believes

Scarecrow Believes
 

What is a ghost if not misplaced energy,
an apprehension or the sum of invisible integers
and the properties they possess? I preside over
this sea of maize, tracking clouds, noting patterns
up high and among the flowing stalks, absorbing
minutiae, assigning connections, piecing together bits,
moment to thought, soil to trickle, flutter to gain.
Energy. Inertia. Waves, converted. If I had a bed
I would not neglect to look under it. The closet door
would remain open, a nightlight positioned nearby
with perhaps a mirror or two angled to offer clarity,
and the radio tuned always to jazz, providing little
purchase to any ill-intentioned spirit. The power of
beauty transfixes, even as it carries me far from my
station, from hilltop to plains to glowering moon.
If neither place nor reason, what consumes
our spiritual remnants, what directs our currents
to the next, and each successive, landing? Crows
have long been considered conduits to the afterlife,
but they exist here, in the now. I do not perspire but
fix my gaze on numbers and their tales, on zero and
the history of nothing, on unseen fingers walking up
my spine, shedding a residue of snow, of mercury
and latent images and dormant seeds in the world
underfoot, acknowledging the wonders of what
can’t be proven, what won’t be held or seen. Still, I
add and subtract, unclench my fingers and accept the
quiet, caught forever within the limits of the boundless,
under the sky, in space, within the improbable.

“Scarecrow Believes” was published in May 2017 in GFT Presents: One in Four, a semiannual, print literary journal published by GFT Press.

 

 

 

23 thoughts on “Scarecrow Believes

  1. Bob! This especially “If neither place nor reason, what consumes
our spiritual remnants, what directs our currents
to the next, and each successive, landing?” You’ve captured the metaphorical essence of Fall.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Thank you, Scarecrow – restating perspectives that now fall amidst a swirl of angst over leadership implications beyond my control. In these churned-up currents, I am hearing afresh: “acknowledging the wonders of what / can’t be proven, what won’t be held or seen … caught forever within the limits of the boundless, / … within the improbable.” And sensing scarecrow-like stamina within as my fingers clinch around HOPE, though many deem it improbable. Ever an optimist, still caution surges – I do not neglect to look under my own bed. Should I find you peering back at me, I would surely smile.

    Liked by 4 people

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