scarecrow poetics/essays

I start to look at the trees,
then their leaves.
Look Noah, look.
Notice how that one is slightly different.
It moves while the others stay quiet.
Kind of like this hammock.

Oh shut up, he says.

What? What was wrong with that?

We continue to sit in the hammock,
only looking at the trees.
You just encourage it, he says.
You encourage the craziness.

Let's just look at the leaves, I say.
Come on.
Me, you, and the leaves.

Let's just avoid life, he says.
I'm tired of looking at the leaves.
We're people,
not leaves.
Sometimes, we have to admit that.

He lifts off the hammock, walking down
to the dock.

Fine, I think.
Leave. I don't need you.
I still have this hammock, the movement,
and the leaves.

My feet push on the ground as I grind
the twig into the dirt.

I haven't encouraged anything.
The wind made him speak crazy
like the different leaf.
It falls.

Noah skips a stone across the lake.

If only it would rain, I think.
Everything would really
sparkle.

Glenna Myles © 2006.

Glenna Myles currently lives and writes in Los Angeles, CA.