by Elmer Omar Pizo
We scarecrows, propped up alone or lumped in groups of twos or threes
in the middle of the rice fields,
feel all right even though we can’t exchange glances, talk to each other,
or walk away from the fields. Continue reading
by Elmer Omar Pizo
We scarecrows, propped up alone or lumped in groups of twos or threes
in the middle of the rice fields,
feel all right even though we can’t exchange glances, talk to each other,
or walk away from the fields. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry