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.