Sonnet on “The Starry Night”

The night he gazed beyond his quiet village
to behold the heavens, no way could he surmise
the vastness of the wellspring of the spillage
of swirls and tints and light that reached his eyes. 
And neither could the Dutchman comprehend
the stardust he was made of, nor the days
space-time’s existed, nor how it can bend
and warp like his brush as it limned unreal rays.
All there was back then was the Milky Way
balanced above the groves and rolling hills.
What lay beyond was just as fabricated
as the quiet village, the nocturnal trills
of distant birds. And yet what he created
is a universe where dreams can play and play.