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 
Vivid!
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Thank you, John.
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I found this poem strangely moving.
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Thanks, Liz.
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You’re welcome, Bob.
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Dancing is the answer to many things. (K)
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Oh, would that I could!
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Ah, but perhaps this poem IS an answer of sorts – a recognition and a salute!
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It is at least the beginning of an answer. 🙂
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