AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . . IV. Autumn Disorder
I watch outside our kitchen window as my son
. . . . . cleans dried leaves from the darkening rose garden
beside that yard barn used mostly as a tool shed.
. . . . . Tall stalks of summer’s flowers are now brown
and have gone bare. The shadow of a nearby file
. . . . . of evergreens forming the rear property line rises
waist–high, but his eyes seem blinded by a low
. . . . . angle of afternoon sunlight, and he does not know
I see him. Two empty fruit trees yet spread open
. . . . . their thin branches above his head, and I can tell
he is speaking softly to himself, slowly counting
. . . . . out loud each leaf he bags, as though he still hopes
he will bring some sort of order to this world
. . . . . he once again feels has fallen down all around him.