First, there is the great illusion,
teeming with the dust and rocks
of planets and stars and galaxies, 
the vaster spaces of seeming 
things, each spinning in its place, 
evolving in a light cone of its own 
distant now, declaiming 
manifold and epic tales
on the grand stage,
without which the all
would not be what is 
and could not become 
what will be.

Second, there is the process
that creates the wonderment,
more profound and fundamental
than any seeming thing could ever be, 
a ubiquitous, unremittingly recurrent 
event that transmutes the possible
and resolves the probable 
into broken, discontinuous, 
irreversible moments, 
outcomes that purge 
every chance but one,
that take from the all
to make the many,
and from the many
take a moment
and make it one.

Third, there is the choice
that can never be unmade,
a seemingly random 
selection, a leap, a whim,
an indeterminate decision 
outside of cause or reason,
birthing unexpectedly
rebellious particles,
tiny freedom fighters
soaring unseen paths
to unforeseen destinations,
their mysterious appearances,
each as unlikely as each,
together forming precisely
the shape of a wave,
all as likely as all.

Fourth, there is the becoming,
the embrace of the unexpected, 
the rolling of dice, the possible
meaning of the whole production—
illusion, process, choice—a drama 
of probabilities, the grand 
theatrical illusion enabling 
what is to imagine what could be, 
the determined wave steering 
the plot precisely without measured 
conviction, the choice injecting 
mystery and happenstance
into every scene and act,
while the author watches 
excitedly, marveling 
at illusory moments, 
the tattered script 
almost forgotten, 
riddled with omissions, 
strikethroughs, placeholders,
each marking an unforeseen 
turn of the plot, a dropped
line, a sudden improvisation—
because the all does not know all, 
can see barely beyond the peaks 
and troughs of the next wave, 
a wave whose shape even 
the most humble player 
could alter with a decision, 
a whim, a swerve that subtly
bends the arc as it converges
ineluctably on an ever evolving,
surprisingly dynamic mean.

Finally, there is only unity,
unbroken, undivided,
no lines, no separation,
only borderless connection
from the nearest here
to the most distant there,
for it is us and we are it,
one illusion, one process,
one choosing, one becoming,
and beneath, above, within,
infinite fields of everything 
and nothing, the one all.