Scarecrow Reaping nothing from what's been sown, arms outstretched, forsaken, he wears his unkempt crown; king of the hand-me-down. Dressed forever in the same tattered rags that suck the wind through or hang from his frame with the weight of the morning's rain, he sways; a metronome to an orchestra of gale and sleet. … Continue reading Two poems by Brett Evans