Little Green Rows

The greenhouse is growing. It’s greening.
Two weeks ago, a look-see down the greenhouse revealed a hundred plugtrays, filled to the brim with potting soil. It was a brown plateau from the tangled chicken wire on this side all the way to the dead poke tree on the far side.
Now, everything has sprouted. They’re poking their little seed leafs up out of the soil, each little plant a small green speck in the middle of a brown square. It’s all very geometric at this point.
Another week and the first true leaves will be out. There’ll be just a bit more green than brown in each little cell. The reach up a tad out of the trays. The view has dimension to it.
A week or two after that the brown soil is completely hidden by the green. The tables are fluffy and wavy and green. They glisten after they’ve been watered. They ruffle when you wave your hand over them.
I’ll empty everything out in due time. The scene then again is brown. Nothing left but the brown wood of the table tops.

I’ll be plowing soon. The nice green of the rye and the vetch that currently cover the fields will be flipped over and disked down into a two acre brown patch of dirt.
I’ll take the plants out of the greenhouse and plant them out into neat little rows. The vast brown fields will have evenly spaced green specks across them.
With time and sunshine and rain, the green specks spread out toward each other. They grow nearer and nearer to each other until there’s just as much green as brown, and then, more.
And with more time and, shall we say, um, inattention, there’s grows beneath each plant a nice mat of weeds, completely covering up any dirt that may have still been visible.
It all gets greener and greener and bigger and bigger until it’s finally harvested. Then, anything left that’s green gets disked back under and the brown soil brought up again. And stays that color until the rye sprouts into little green specks that grow and grow and the green reclaims the fields once again.