Volcanoes in Alaska

When I was young my head could wobble on its base.
Back then when I was happy and useless as a calf.
While out in fields, with dew asleep on blades,
(Wind in the rushes, wings on the orchard blooms,)
I would sing. I miss when time was a jukebox,
Penny for a song.

I remember when all the paths of the meadow led back home,
And you could travel across the whistling paddocks all the way into July:
Hearts leaping from bare chests,
Skinned-knees gently brushed by willow braches.
I remember when my heart was above my ribs,
And I carried my dreams with me rather than lay them beside the hearth,
(Hoping maybe the fire will pick them up, so I don’t have to.)
I remember a time before death when I was stupid and weak
And sweet and soft
And when petty things
Like loose shoestrings and an inability to whistle
Were the only pains I knew of the world.

The world: a cute, explosive volcano of existence,
Waiting to be explored,
But with magma barely at bay
just below the surface.