The Fields Are Plains of Green
The fields are plains of green
Beneath which muted colors lie.
Verdant cells held high and tight with turgid moisture,
Sway, then fall,
To have their life fluid seep into a common wetness,
Whose clinging elements pry parts into like,
And by electricity pull even smaller parts to a destination unclear.
There is no knowing,
Just a pull, or a push.
No urging,
Just a force.
There is no stopping until a grip so tight
That parts are squeezed and disappear into each other,
And something different appears.
The old never was.
The new is old.
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