cypress forest

perhaps in his third life vincent van gogh
comes back as an astronaut
and finds that the sky is just as he dreamed,
drifting like a fishing boat through the glory of stars,
eyes open until they blur and the coils
of the galaxy grow soft, until he sees
brushstrokes in the vast expanse
of darkness and feels his heart
climb into his throat, with only the gentle
hiss of his radio and his heartbeat
in his ears, mimes cupping the yellow
sun like a sunflower, traces the stroke of the milky
way with one gloved hand like the edges
of a leaning cypress, a forest of stars above him
and far below, like a careful whorl of blue
and green paint, the whole world
full of love underneath him, and knows
with a certainty in his heart like astrophysics,
somewhere far, far beneath him, beyond
what he can see, lies a wheat field,
and a long stretch of sunny road that leads
all the way to tarascon.
—  s.s., the astronaut

Bald Cypress in Morning Fog by Andrew Semprebon