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The Island
I step lonely over this shore, warm sand,
the scent of coconuts and no crabs,
no tea.
Nothing to eat.
My wet eyes blink at the distant clouds,
as seen by Alexander Selkirk.
Our sentiments meet.
How long life is, so long,
infinitely so, we know only life.
We know death only from its observation in others.
Others stop communicating with us:
they are dead.
Our cells stop communicating with us:
they are dead.
The most distant stars are out of sight, faster than light.
The most distant stars stop communicating with us:
they are dead.
This knife carves our universe into its present form,
and this shape is called life.
Our life. This shape is unique to us, each thing, each sector.
Each sector of the universe can send and receive unique data,
and as this communication reflects life,
so each life is unique in form.
Two distant starts communicate:
dead to us, but alive to each other.
Does this prove life beyond death?
Life is the communication of information.
I touch the gritty sand,
and raise a sunken shell to my ear.
The shell communicates a wistful moan,
a sunless sigh.
I whisper to this new friend,
a greeting to Alexander Selkirk.
I sense his soul reply,
here in nothing,
on a beach of nowhere,
with only you, the reader
of these tragic words.
I cast the shell into the sea.
I step lonely over this shore, warm sand,
the scent of coconuts and no crabs,
no tea.
Nothing to eat.
How long life is, so long,
infinitely so, we know only life.
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