Parable & Poem

A great brushfire arose in the field where a scarecrow stood. All the tiny varmints and snakes scurried to the outlying forest. Even the scarcrow, taking note of the disturbance, uprooted himself, stalked off, and was never seen again by provincial eyes, nor indeed, ever thought of except maybe once in idle rumination as a heap of cinders. But the scarecrow lived on much as anyone lives on, only moreso, for he never ate or grew tired or even stood still, loath to emulate the life once lead before blessed fire came and tore down his field. It was thus that the scarecrow came to praise fire, came to seek it night and day, like one of honor indebted to a friend. But as the months passed and the season changed, fire was scarce to find. And because it was scarce to find the scarecrow was in awe of it even more. So he found another field and rooted himself there, against his preference, waiting for the fire to come and salvage him again. This tale was relayed to a crow one day who perched on the scarecrow's head. The crow, in its guileless way, proposed whether fire may not have just been incidental in evoking a potential long possessed? The scarecrow grew quite offended, banished the crow, and banished all crows forthwith. And there he stands to this day, ruling his hallowed ground; revered by many for the absence of crows.

 

When I put on my face I feel beautiful.
When I choke on gin.
Or twist an ankle.
Men flock like sparrows. Pecking.
Saying Isn't she?
Have you?
Yes.
Because love is what it takes
to tint your eyes
Show up at 11:30 with dreams smeared on
just right
So the wick unfurls Liberty.
And I free range on glamour
Monotony.
Til my apples are spoiled. Kindred witch.
Til you can't make yourself float anymore.
Til the cross isn't thick enough.
By and by.
We have our way now, don't we.