If only the night sky was Starry Night. I would run out into the brightness of the
stars and leap into the air, catching the swirl of the wind and riding upon Van
Gogh’s paint stroke until I reached the lightness of the moon. I would stay there, cradled in the moon-bend;
held like a child, warm as the womb.
There I would never be touched by the dark rising turrets of the
unidentifiable shadows. Though
sometimes, if the heat of that haven started to burn softly at my flesh, or the
orange-yellow beams began to blind me, I would cascade down cool blue ribbons
into the sleeping town. I’d tiptoe past
the houses and the church, the schoolyard and the butcher, and then I’d climb
up those dark twisting branches, feel their sharp bark as it pressed into my
palms. I would stand barefoot on the
edge with my back pressing against the grainy willow and look down upon that
small civilization, so close to a heaven so far out of its reach.
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