Upon viewing Vincent VanGogh’s Tree Roots, 1890

What roots and rivulets, what channels churn, as we
walk through forests and fields? On his final day

upon the earth, VanGogh left an unfinished work
of knotted blues and greens – tree roots exposed
in a marl quarry, embedded in fleshy clay and lime.

Was he already imagining the entwining of bone
and sinew among those knotted, gnarling joints?

Perhaps he took comfort from soft mosses
wrapped around fingers of wood, furred cloaks
cushioning weary limbs like a king retiring in his

royal bed, protected from the castle’s winter cold.
How such a thought might bring us comfort, too –

that deep beneath the soil, our empty cages,
doors flung wide to free our winged souls,
may find rest in the ancient silt between

bedrock and air, among the cradling roots
of the very trees that shaded us in life.