Tin man’s heart,

a bounce-off seed-

defective ears,

don’t hear their need.

Rainy season, kisses land,

so much green in your hand;

’til desert season makes it’s show,

then parched, shriveled, down you go.

Six words to a kiss,

kindness to a treason;

cold cash, calls out-

voice disguised as reason.

This fertile land, an oddity,

growth here, to border land-

crop lush, no modesty –

work of busy hand.

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