People who do not “create” often think artists are crazy. Poets, in particular, have often been accused through the ages of walking the earth on a slightly different plane. I think the difference between artists and the rest is merely that we (I happily accept that appellation) simply choose to look at the world intent on seeing every moment for its uniqueness. We constantly want to see what’s behind the closed doors—What is under the leaf or rock or on the other side of the moon? What color is loneliness? What is the taste of love? We question everything, even the questions.

Like little children we ask “Why?” and “How?” and, especially, “What if?” And we’re not content merely to watch the moment. We want to know how blowing one seed from a dandelion puff in my back yard in Omaha might affect starlight on a planet in Andromeda.

Our lives are metaphor. It’s the only way we can make sense of existence. Sometimes we take the same moment, the same event, and reflect on it one way—a poem or painting or analogy or dance or song—then turn it over or move around to another angle and start all over again. People who read our work or view it or listen scratch their heads and wonder themselves where we came up with that notion, and we hope that it makes them understand a little better, or at least a little more, about their own lives.

We look at the world in wonder. We look at the world and wonder. We wonder why everyone doesn’t.

Look around. See what’s new or look at something old and make it new. Find your artist.