Burmese Scarcrow Poem by nathan martin

synthetic textile ghost, a.k.a. brown burlap bag
hanging over a shovel in the garden.

along its side reads burmese long grain rice.

it is raining heavely and the water has begun
to create tiny puddles in the dirt..

i can hear the wind blowing sheats
of rain across the grass.

i imagine green rice fields and wooden
ox carts mixing in the monsoon clay ethic.

burmese burlap hanging in the wind,
from what fields have you come?

who painted those markings on you?

was your birthplace holy?

the pool of bethseda is at your feet.