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  • Writer's pictureAnne Mitchell

Becoming scarecrow

I sit in the garden

after work to enjoy

the decay of fall.


Oak moths flutter

reaper fairies aflame

to a serenade from three crows.


The splintered easel begs

a torso, mesh me

in moss, cobwebs.


Limbs walk in driftwood,

twig fingers poke from compost,

a pumpkin rolls off the adobe wall.



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