November

In fields strewn with morning dew,
The lonely scarecrow does make his post.
Forgotten vines from pumpkins old,
Waste and lay dying at his feet.

In yonder farm house a breeze is stirring,
Its smell permeates the dawn air.
A mother's oven brimming to capacity
With love-filled muffins and tender thoughts.

Outside an idle tractor sits,
It's usefulness sleeping sound.
Months on end of drudgery
Now over, it is done.

A barren wasteland? No, it just wanes.
A rebirth awaits to renew;
It will wax and it will thrive again;
The scarecrow will have his day.


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