Scarecrow Dances
A case of the almost
tapping into the deed:
I dance in daylight,
but never on stairs
nor in countable
patterns, the wind
and birds my only
partners. When the
left arm twitches
counter to the right
hand’s frisk, my
head swivels with
the breeze, catching
my feet in pointe,
a moment endured
in humor. Luther
Robinson switched names
with his brother Bill
and became Bojangles,
but my brothers remain
nameless and silent,
flapping without desire
or intent. Why am I
as I am, born of no
mother, stitched and
stuffed, never nurtured
but left to become this
fluttering entity, thinking,
always thinking, whirling,
flowing rhythmically
in sequence, in time
to unheard music?
No one answers me.
But for now, I dance.
“Scarecrow Dances” first appeared in The Blue Nib in September 2016.
O at the Edges 
Fantastic seasonal poetry, beautifully penned.
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Thanks very much, Jay.
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You’re welcome
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My head is known to turn with a breeze – all thoughts suddenly interrupted. But I can’t claim “swivel” like Scarecrow – clearly there’d be trade-offs, but sounds delightful to be so loose, so flexible, so “blown”!
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My head creaks when turning. O, to be flexible!
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Oh, I like this one, very much. For me, it’s the dance, always.
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Thank you! Yes, the dance!
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I should also mention that the poem reads very rhythmically. I see Scarecrow, Bojangled out, swaying, shifting on the wind. Really like this one a lot.
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Thank you for noticing. I’ve only a few poems in which movement and rhythm are integral by intent. This is one of them. 🙂
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