In Virginia

The light rises from the boxwood
       and hovers just above, like an extra skin.

Those heavy clouds furrowed
       around our hilltop all week
                                   have broken up, split apart,
and the sun is glinting off the wet earth
              like drum beats delineating
bush, truck, pond.

                     Even the pathway
to the barn shines, humble asphalt
                            beatified. But especially the boxwood.

I never liked it so before.

       A skin of light, surfaces pocked
with baroque patterns and lifting.
              I wish I could feel my skin

                            lifting, infused with visible desire.