universal

Tolstoy,
a confession—
Viceroy,
a reflection.

To pause, to think,
sentient in the storm,
tides turning,
time unwinding.

The clock strikes midnight—
a rebirth,
a return.

Past and present
fold into space,
nonlinear, unbound.

I realize—
it is me,
it is eye,
it is the gust of wind,
the starry sky.