The Intercession of Light

The field might be a sheet
shaken at the hands
of a luminous blonde.

It just might belly up.

Never in your life have you
been touched as you have just been
touched by light

as it moves the mown field
or the gray slate of the tilted
 cliff.

If the light raced, reared
on desire, the need to go anywhere
fast, it would rid itself

of the random cause of its loveliness.
If it returned, you would rid yourself
of whatever it is that keeps you

attentive to the twist and turn,
the sudden cause of your desire
to give up,

to lose yourself,
lie down in the field
and be shaken.