A Visit with Van Gogh

A Visit with Van Gogh

I walk through broad strokes of sun,

wheat bent over, women carrying

bundled sheaves, trees dark

in the distance.  At the edge

of the field, he sits, crumpled,

still, and filled with light.  I sit

beside him, look out over the late

afternoon, over the stubbled fields,

the roughened skin of soil. 

In his dark wild eyes,

for one moment, I see galaxies

colliding, shining cities of darkness

crumbling.  His gaze returns

to his palette, to the field beyond

his work.  I finger an obsidian chip,

feel the edge of its glassy smoothness,

the darkness of his implosion.  A black hole

flowers at the center of his soul.

The bottom of my sleeve, the hem

of my dress, my hair blow toward him.

A great light radiates from his darkness,

illuminates the coming night.

              ~
by Mary Stebbins Taitt
published in Montserrat Review

Marie Rivet has translated this to French, which you can view here.