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.