He Dwelt on an Island

He Dwelt on an Island

(“But the path of the just is like shining light, that grows in brilliance till perfect day.” Proverbs 4:18)

He was exiled to his own hometown,
disabled and circling the days like an understudy.
At night the northern lights,
he said,
found ways to illustrate the canvas skies.
And morning brought approaching storms that
pushed the Columbian white-tails from the tree stands
to the meadow. The grazed in slow motion. A young doe
with a dappled flank was part fir tree and part willow.
She waited the passing of the thunder until
the sun moved her home inside the forest shadows.

He dwelt on an island,
or so they thought,
surrounded by nothing but sand that brought
every anxious moment to dock so close to his porch
there was little room for conversation.

It was a puzzle that they did not see the bridges
that connected him, you, and me. It was a mystery.
And like most magic, their eyes were averted from
anything they could not explain. He once had walked
down the center of town. He once owned the airwaves,
he once sat with princes and sang with jazz quartets.

He did not choose this solitary. He did not move away at all.
He lived as close as he ever had, within walking distance
from those that once shook his hand.

Some days it darkened him. Some days he believed his
isolation.
But when the clouds moved on, when the does and the fawn
tiptoed past his door,
he knew the light had never left, nor could it. The light
had been left on. The light was all that left him
completely
undone.