The coming season of rest

I wish I was that blade of grass
swaying in the breeze on a Sunday morning.
I wish I was that lodgepole pine towering towards the sky
rooted deep yet unencumbered.
I wish I were that bee landing on my shirt, almost too small
to be noticed, essential to the world.
I wish I were the soil beneath my boots covered
in a soft layer of needles, pine cones and rotting branches.
I wish I were that bird flying from tree to tree
carrying small twigs for her last nest
before winter settles in.
The grass will bend its weary head into the snow,
the soil will sleep under a white blanket, sap
will slow down in its journey upward, the bee
will find its hive.
I will go to work every day as if
there were no seasons.
I wish I were a tree, a bee, a bird, a blade
of grass or the soil under my feet where
all embrace the changing of the
season.