Scarecrow

The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,

Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,

What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?