By Andrea Lingle

Before the beginning. 

Back when all-that-there-is had yet to be, 

There was diffusion. 

There was u-ni-form-i-ty.

Therewasnovisibledeterminationofoneoranother.

There was i-n-f-i-n-i-t-e possibility,

And nothing.

Not one thing.

And all things.

Would come to be.

All that there is:

Whiskers,

Pine needles,

Styrofoam cups,

Hazelnuts and topaz,

Chicken wattles,

Flip-flops,

The White Cliffs of Dover

Tide pools and Christmas lights.

Palominos,

Dark chocolate,

Asteroids,

Shot-gun casings and Floam,

Honey,

Obsidian,

Broken guitar strings,

Compression socks and monarchs.

All that there is came from limiting the limitless.

From the infinity of diffuse possibility,

Into light.

Into a hat.

Into the utter joy of a long-roped swing.

To love is: 

To limit,

To listen, 

To desire.

The knot garden over the meadow,

The cranberry-orange cookie.

In specific.

Because you must limit the infinity of possibility

If you are to see the one

You need to love.

Love creates from andendlessseriesofoneandoneandoneandone–

The beloved.