Into dandelions

On the bus, through a windowpane, I slip
Into the grass.
Up these small sunbursts of yellow, I rise
On birdsong,
A single note held up to the clouds.
Slide down branches held up to the light
Through petals, into the strength of tree root and earth
And back into myself, replenished, complete.

'I' write, and is it the voice of grass, or clouds, or the parched self that slipped into them? It seems I only find myself when I can learn to move into a greater consciousness of self.