Why should we believe that the universe was plotted out in the office of a majestic architect, or designed in the workshop of some sublime engineer? Isn’t creation more like a poem that simply writes itself once the poet has come up with the first few words?

Those of us who’ve brought forth poems often have the conviction that the peom itself was a manifestation of a love needing to be spoken. Might not a tree, a flower, or a mountain also be in themselves forms of love that must be spoken?

Might not we?