There was a time,

so the story goes,

when people knew.

They felt it deep in their bones

and saw it

in a winter sunrise or a field of daisies

or children splashing in a spring puddle

and heard it

in the call of geese winging south

the rumble of thunder

or the giggle of a dark-eyed girl.

They smelled it

in freshly mown grass

touched it

in the smooth grain of an ancient oak

tasted it

on a lover’s mouth.

It was fierce and tender

unassailable, incomprehensible

and impossible to doubt.

But we grew wise

measuring and counting and classifying


and everyone

declaring what is

and what can’t possibly be

and why

and who

and so

“We have lost our sense of our belovedness.”