I am the Scarecrow under Harvest Moon
The moon, dried blood shade, rested, juxtaposed
slightly above the fields that draw my body
as a silhouette scarecrow against
October harvest terrain: the sky a concave
bending as never meant by god,
creates for me a vantage point
to view birth,
the moon ascends.
Orange hues dissipate, drain into fog,
smooth out until equilibrium
loses track of their dye.
I find what is left of the Harvest Moon
expressed in tints, tones on my lover’s
this I catch from my field perch;
my scarecrow tissue is paper; white moon
glides the concave until it sinks, colors
wash away by morning dew.
© 2003 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez. All rights reserved.
Featured PoetrySijo #1
Christ Did Not Know
Before I Knew Sandra