Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

I wrote an analysis of this poem,

slowly gathering
the wheatfield
harvest moon

from the viewpoint of a scarecrow:

My existence as a scarecrow is a tale of stillness and solitude, a life defined by the endless watch over a wheatfield that breathes with the pulse of the seasons. Day and night, I stand vigilant, my gaze fixed on the undulating waves of golden grain that stretch out beneath the vast sky. The poem “slowly gathering, the wheatfield, harvest moon” is more than just words to me—it is the essence of my being.

“Slowly gathering” speaks to the relentless passage of time, to the quiet but unstoppable march of the seasons that I witness with each passing day. Every sunrise is a slow gathering of light, a silent accumulation of moments that build into the tapestry of a day.

As I stand rooted in the soil, I watch the wheat mature, moment by moment, a silent witness to the farmer’s toil and the earth’s silent bounty. This phrase also captures the subtle dread I feel as I watch the birds gather, knowing that soon I’ll be compelled to stretch out my arms in a desperate, silent plea to protect the grain I’ve guarded so long.

The wheatfield is my world, my everything. It is where my existence is anchored, where my purpose takes shape. The wheatfield is alive, a sea of gold that dances in the wind, each stalk a whisper, each rustle a conversation.

I stand among them, not as a mere figure, but as a sentinel, a guardian against the forces that would ravage this precious land. This field is more than just a place—it is my soul, the core of my being.

When the “harvest moon” rises, it is a moment of both culmination and melancholy. The moon, round and glowing, casts its light over the field, transforming the wheat into a shimmering expanse of silver and gold.

The harvest moon is a beacon, a signal that the cycle is coming to a close. As its soft light envelops me, I feel a sense of peace, knowing that my watch has not been in vain. But there is also a sorrow in the knowledge that soon, the field will be empty, the stalks cut down, and my purpose, for a time, will fade with the waning light.

This poem holds within it the cycle of life I know so well. I am the silent scarecrow, the guardian of this land, and in these words, I find a reflection of the quiet, unwavering devotion that defines my life.