Since the next big event in my life
will probably be dying,
I apply for citizenship
in the republic of ants and grass.
I lie under the venerable spruce
outside my porch,
watch at eye level
until the crabgrass, creeping Charlie,
sorrel and pine needles
slow my heart, slice my breath
into even steps downward.
Every green thing sequesters carbon,
exhales oxygen.
Ants full of purpose hurry
to the top of a crabgrass blade,
then bustle down the other side.
Wind riffles my hair green.