To invoke Ken Myers, there are, in this world in which we find ourselves, an astonishing number of likenesses and correspondences.

Last summer I crouched in the dirt, weeding the beans with my friends Ginger and Krystin. “Gardening is a lot like marriage,” Ginger said. So we worked beside each other, sweating in the bright sun, arm muscles flexing, backs bending, and discussed the joyful and long-suffering toil of a husband and wife.

Last week, in the middle of the night, I woke to a shrill, eerie voice. It moaned a long, sustained note that rose and then fell and then faded into nothing. “Who is singing?” I wondered. I lay there entranced, half awake, with a chill running down my back. Then I recognize the sound. It was the passing of the night train, the wheels screeching metal on metal on the tracks. And I thought of the strange beauty of our life journey and its mysteries and recognitions. It continues into an invisible distance beyond, to end in another world.

Just this evening, I looked up into the sky at a dark ocean of space, purple against the bright stars. And the glow from those stars, so many light years away, lit my uplifted face.

This is why poetry works. It reveals the connectedness of things. As Ken Myers says, our world is teeming with metaphors.

Perhaps we really are living in Creation. And maybe the Creator is a poet.

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