napowrimo 2 - Scarecrow

You held a basket of yellow lemons
fresh and bright,
as though you picked newborn suns
you were always so arrogant,
but your smile was never as raw.
The road to the field was blocked
you were the hurdle.
I sat from afar toasted in sun rays
sometimes saluted with summer breeze.
My eyelids were lacerated
you had all the threads and all the needles.
I waited for the grass to wither to brown
for fruits to stiffen and lose their shine.
I've grown so old and weary
waiting for your seasons to pass by
waiting for your ghost to go.
Seasons changed, seasons vanished
you're still harvesting the fine lemons
I'm still struck by the scarecrow.