From above the Alabama soil
There were stories that were calling
Out louder than the crispy
Noise of peanuts, crunched on teeth,
While the bones beneath still remember
The touch of the bush, the leaf and the caress
When there were corvid-shades everywhere
Making a racket on the need of the hour,
To be colorblind, when there were always
Whispers that grafted a black Leonardo
From beneath gender-free plains,
How the legend of a peanut farmer filled the plates
And hearts of the great south with ease.
How absolutely little it takes to alternate,
Crop, color, even gender and perhaps personality.
There are more hybrids than pure-bred lines
In a world caught up in labels and innuendos,
Just like the peanut on the tip
Of the peg, growing to be that proud fruit
That destiny could never erase or absolve
From the pages of an open heart,
And still closed like a shelled goober,
To the harsh decree of time.

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