Vincent

after “At Eternity’s Gate”

Only an artist would notice the light—

which way the flame flickers

left alone in a darkened room.

Deny it if you like, but

there are places in this world

where sunlight never speaks. Still,

I had days of warmth,

standing among those fields of tall saints,

eyes locked with the divine.

Days draped in amber so pure,

night would send a fever of stars

searching for its glow.

But not here.

Not this.

I did the best that I could. Most days,

I was a beggar. In the end,

I think God will paint me

golden—a star

stumbling through creation,

yellow light on yellow walls.