AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . V. Winter Images


. . . . .1

All night long a slow moving snowstorm
. . . . . has filled the tree lines along these hillsides.

In morning light the wedges of evergreens,
. . . . . dressed white, ride higher ridges like those set

mainsails of old boats we’d often view last
. . . . . summer floating lazily just off shore in slight

August breezes, dyed by a low angle of evening
. . . . . sun still shining brightly against their triangles.


. . . . .2

When my son and I walk toward the woods
. . . . . not far behind our house, follow closely each

small cloud of breath appearing ahead of us—
. . . . . as though there were no other way we could

measure evidence of life on so pale a day—
. . . . . we see even these few tall poplars rising nearby,

their limbs yet empty of leaves, seem bleached
. . . . . white or covered now with linen cloth, in need

of some color, perhaps as in those seasonal
. . . . . prints of tinted poplars Monet once had painted

more than a century ago. The artist so loved
. . . . . his rich images of those trees he bought the land

where they stood until he filled his canvases,
. . . . . but then sold his models’ good wood for lumber.


. . . . .3

Alex removes both of his gloves to touch
. . . . . the whiteness—lifting a thick clump of snow

in one hand, tracing the length of an icicle
. . . . . with a thumb—lingering until his thin fingers

are almost numb. Although usually content
. . . . . to live merely in images on the page or within

a frame, whether summer or winter, I know
. . . . . my son can only feel the cold, must make it real.