AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . VI. Learning Words

On this early December morning, so warm
. . . . . winter appears merely a rumor, my son sits

stiff-backed on a wooden bench, watching
. . . . . above with wonder as he notices the absence

of leaves in the large oak trees around him,
. . . . . although he already has been taught how to live

with loss, to appreciate that which is missing.
. . . . . When he stares down at that dark brown patch

of bare ground where the park’s flower
. . . . . garden had still been bright and full of colors

just a couple of months ago, he repeats
. . . . . those strange names he had finally learned

to speak at summer’s end—day lilies,
. . . . . dahlias, asters, and, at last, chrysanthemums—

now so proud of his growing vocabulary.
. . . . . Yet, after he finishes stating his seasonal

litany, we must begin again, as he mouths
. . . . . each word I say: icicle, blizzard, hibernation . . .