What play of light is this?
That catches my mind and twirls it through the swaying treetops.
Some distant sense of adventure calling through the wind,
tossing my restless spirit to and fro,
orbiting this central point of recognition,
of realization,
of eternity breathless in a single moment
when my lungs are truly felt,
when the blood in my fingers throbs with my pulse.
I am the micro, the macro.
Each level, not one atop of the other,
but one within the other,
patterns repeated on a small and large scale,
doorways ever opening toward more doorways
windows leading inward,
leading outward
blink
branches of dancing trees—
blink
the veins inside my eyelids—
blink
the sky is the pale fathom of my own eye staring back at me.