After Vincent van Gogh’s Olive Trees, 1889
Each footstep echoes
vast white scattered
with beautiful tableaux.
Punctuated, exclamated
with faint sobbing.
How does an olive grove;
is it even an olive grove;
that’s what the label says;
How does an olive grove
exude this emotion?
Standing in front of the painting
observing the strokes
the clumps of dried oil
paint so full of life
full of its own emotion
Deep within me
my stomach?
my heart?
Deep inside me
the tears flew up
He was me?
He is me
I was him?
I am him
Saving?
recording?
maybe if I record what I see;
the beauty I see;
maybe I can pull it out of me –
or maybe I can fill up
the emptiness
I see the melancholy;
the desperate search
for meaning;
imbued into canvas
I felt him there that day
penetrating my soul.
I left the gallery different
from when I stepped in
He is me.
I am him.
