How could they not,
the ancient ones,
standing bare foot on wet sand,
the night tight around them,
the blood moon rising
cold fire from the sea?
How could they not know
in deep cellular fathoms
that the whole was holy?
In all my lovely science,
I must believe they knew.
And we, what do we know,
the same moon and sea,
yet in the inconvenient dark,
we hide in our electric houses
and never know night.