for “The Starry Night” Vincent Van Gogh
Even at midnight, brightness.
Shadows deepen over village,
steeples creep skyward.
Clouds swirl impasto,
painter’s knife sliding,
cutting broken love.
Glowing pigment straight from the tube,
no mixing, only precise movements
imagining shattered pieces whole again.
Umbra cast over souls,
shuffling, lost.
Light crooning lullaby—
desperate indigo and cyan,
breath of cornflower,
mustard bursting crescent,
blossoming yellow.
How would you paint me?
As bright as curving starlight?
Or languishing steeple
in the darkest hour of the night?
