Happy Hunting Grounds

I have not found peace,
 but I have glimpsed it
in the happy eye of a dog
 on a walk,
 panting in step with step
 after a mad scramble
 after a fleeting rabbit
      or chasing
       a squirrel up a tree
and at home darting beneath
 slumbering lids,
 chasing dreams.


It is cruel and embarrassing
 to have an asteroid strike my beauty;
my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted
 with the havoc and the gash.
When my volcanoes erupt,
 my people chastise my
  self-inflicted violence.
They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature;
 they question my bountifulness.
In fear, some look to the moon
 and the craters and despair,
  but I am earth;
   I am shrouded in miracle:
    patient, folding old skin within
     to be rekindled into new,
 canvasing barren landscapes with
  humble grass, and flowers, soon.


The waves curl and break within my body,
 up my torso, up my shoulders, and
  burst into my throat,
incessant, insistent,
so constantly ardent.
Where to? Where to?
Where are you going?
Oh, where are you going?