AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . . XXIII. Wind Currents at Dusk
New gusts rustle through the few
. . . . . trees that edge our backyard fence.
Their thick branches shift slowly
. . . . . in the wind with the strict rhythm
one might find in a chorus line,
. . . . . as though a whole row of dancers
had been choreographed to move
. . . . . in time with the mellow melody
of an orchestra’s tune. A gray
. . . . . haze of chimney smoke unfolds
and gently rolls over the steep
. . . . . slope of our roof. It slips across
the darkening lawn disappearing
. . . . . below, sifted by stippled patterns
of shadows in the trees. My son
. . . . . watches all through his bedroom
window, counts each black leaf,
. . . . . calculates the world around him.
What a painterly scene you create; also one that's aural, echoed in the carefully chosen words that produce the "mellow melody" of the leaves as they fall, the "strict rhythm" in which the stanzas fall one to another, all the way to the end where the counting (full of meaning) continued.
ReplyDeleteThere seems also a bit of sadness, introduced with those first words "New gusts" and carried through to the reckoning of autumn's meaning, reflected in the "gray haze", "darkening lawn", "shadows", every "black leaf" your son "calculates", looking for answers.
What a lovely line is "sifted by stippled patterns / of shadows...." Your use of the word "stippled" -- the pattern or way engraved -- is wonderful here.
Thank you, Maureen, for your comments, which reflect precisely what I was hoping to communicate and the manner in which I had attempted to portray the moment.
ReplyDeleteI was particularly pleased by your reaction to the use of "stippled," which was the very last word added to the poem during revision.
Ed