The island in the zygote –
floating minuscule and fragile;
island in the womb –
so vulnerable, so vulnerable.
The island in my head – so insubstantial,
so subjective; inside my skin – so mortal;
the island in my chest – so isolated, so lonely.
White spit of sand in the middle
of a dark blue sea until the Ocean Itself
leaves footprints along the shore.
Accustom yourself, its pattern reads,
to a shared life. And
for years now,
my island fortress has been shrinking
under the determined elements of truth –
wild winds, brutal storms, the heavy seas.
When every place you trust,
the footprints read, underfoot is gone;
everything you thought solid proven flimsy,
the truth will swim into view –
truth to drown in; truth vast as the Ocean
encircling your sad
and dwindling little island.
O child of God, every man is an island
until reclaimed by the Ocean of Love.
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