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
        looking glass,
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
        sleeping face;
this I catch from my field perch;
my scarecrow tissue is paper; white moon
glides the concave until it sinks, colors
        left behind
wash away by morning dew.

© 2003 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez.  All rights reserved.

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