I live in Virginia, where the berries grow wild,

where I would run with the wind as a barefoot child,

where the green grass of morning, soft-sprinkled with dew,

would tickle my toes as I would go running through.

I would sit among magnolias in the shade.

I would dream of the castles that the blue sky made;

and I would hold the nine petals, white as the snow,

with the luscious green leaves that were always in tow.

Old greybeard would hang from the branches of the oak,

absorbing the rain within the lace of its cloak.

Its sinewy wisps would cascade gracefully down,

a mass of wet tendrils beneath a silver crown.

The meadows and mountains would blossom in the spring

as Jack-in-the-Pulpit observed everything.

He watched beneath a canopy, curved overhead,

like a priest in a sanctum of green-brownish thread.

The paint strokes of morning would color the hour,

emblazoned with jewels that circled the bower.

Cloud banks would liberate their diaphanous breath,

while the blue lips around were the kisses of death.

The thunderous claps would chill with their merciless blast

from the start of the storm until it breathed its last.

Sitting in a rocker, on a porch of delight,

I venerated the rain that joined in the flight.

I live in Virginia; Virginia lives in me.

The roofs I remember are the roofs that I see.

The moss and magnolias are scattered around

but the earth has no spot like this corner of ground.