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
in the smooth grain of an ancient oak
on a lover’s mouth.
It was fierce and tender
and impossible to doubt.
But we grew wise
measuring and counting and classifying
declaring what is
and what can’t possibly be
“We have lost our sense of our belovedness.”