By Lynn White
Fields of cotton
as far as the eye can see,
row upon row of soft white balls
the plants and people,
the plants and people.
A crop so thirsty it can dry up a sea
A crop so hungry it can starve a people
A crop so needy it can render sterile the land
forced to grow it.
A crop so demanding it can destroy,
wherever it goes.
Its softness hides a heart of steel.
But still it’s natural.
“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer