©A. Derek Catalano
No Man is an Island
The mountain stands in lonely pride, its peak against the blue,
With granite walls and frozen heart, it needs no point of view.
But man is made of softer clay, of spirit, breath, and bone,
And withered is the soul that seeks to journey all alone.
Though ego whispers of the self, a kingdom for the one,
No flower blooms in shadow-lands without the golden sun;
So too the heart, in silence locked behind a heavy door,
Becomes a shell upon the sand, a ghost upon the shore.
We are the threads of tapestry, a grand and vast design,
Where every color relies upon the neighboring strand of line.
To cut the cord and drift away in search of sovereign ground
Is but to lose the melody and silence every sound.
For in the infant’s first-drawn breath, a mother’s touch is there,
A social contract written in the very morning air;
We learn to speak by hearing speech, to love by being loved,
By countless hands and unseen hearts, our heavy stones are moved.
Consider well the lonely tree that braves the winter’s gale,
Without the forest at its back, its rooted strength will fail.
But when the grove stands thick and deep, the roots begin to lace,
They share the water of the earth, they hold the soil in place.
So let us hold our brother’s hand when shadows start to creep,
And let us share the heavy load when hills are high and steep.
For joy is doubled when it’s shared, and grief is cut in two,
When shared with those who walk the path and see the world with you.
