AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXVII. Fall Walk at Forest Park

. . . . . 1

The blade of his body leaning a bit
. . . . . into this stiff breeze, Alex leads

me toward the crab orchard grove
. . . . . where he disappears under cover

of boughs, seems swallowed by late
. . . . . day stains of shade spreading out

from beneath each tree. Somewhere
. . . . . above, a flock of white-crowned

sparrows sounds loudly, suddenly
. . . . . fluttering among a rustle of leaves

stirred anew in every rushing gust.
. . . . . Across that still-damp ground all

around us remain the thin scribbles
. . . . . of smaller branches left last night

by a rainstorm, a few already bare,
. . . . . their outlines configured in twists.


. . . . . 2

They lie as if arthritic on an uncut
. . . . . lawn among twitches of tall grass,

long and wet yet shifting with each
. . . . . fresh drift of air current. The cold

front slips onshore from the lake.
. . . . . My son runs through dark woods

to huddle under those low longer
. . . . . limbs of a willow. Hidden below

their canopy, he again feels safe
. . . . . from swift northern winds, waits

for me to follow and to find him.
. . . . . Though Alex knows these leaves

can’t last much longer, he needs
. . . . . such a brief relief before winter,

hopes for one more chance to hold
. . . . . on to what he has learned to love.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXVI. November Morning: Two Crows

. . . . . 1

We step across a narrow ditch of frozen
. . . . . runoff opening along this hillside still

filled with a thin film of overnight snow.
. . . . . The slim shape of its slit fades away,

disappearing into a split in that distant
. . . . . line of pines rising straight and stable

despite a persistent hint of northwest
. . . . . winds chilling the early morning air,

twisting through a covering of leafless
. . . . . trees. Slowly moving among some

fallen branches, Alex carries a camera
. . . . . slung by his side, awaits my advice

on where to aim and how to frame
. . . . . a photo to preserve the perfect image.


. . . . . 2

He pauses, listens to the caws of two
. . . . . crows floating in currents overhead—

the pair seen between trees a moment,
. . . . . then unseen—and he feels the cold,

knows that beyond the broken canopy
. . . . . of looming black limbs, somewhere

not far past this last ragged shore ridge
. . . . . edging Lake Michigan, winter will

soon arrive once more. Thrilled, yet
. . . . . wordless, Alex lifts his lens, tilting

at the crisscross pattern of treetops.
. . . . . He directs it toward that jagged gap

of sky showing above him like space
. . . . . meant for a misplaced puzzle piece.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXV. New Construction

In the distance, construction workers
. . . . . hammer for hours at a new house

taking shape. Alex sits on our porch
. . . . . and listens, softly nodding his head

under the slant of morning sunshine,
. . . . . as if remembering steady drumbeats

of an old song or offering a private
. . . . . signal of approval. When we walk

to watch the walls of the home rise
. . . . . in late afternoon light, the second

floor nearly done, he shades his eyes
. . . . . to peer up toward one of the higher

cut out places, as though he knows
. . . . . a son like him will some night look

off from that bedroom, in the same
. . . . . manner he does at times, and might

wonder about people passing below
. . . . . or view the brighter stars far above,

attempting to gauge ways of worlds
. . . . . always forming outside his window.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXIV. Disappearances

. . . . . 1

Crisscrossed limbs of winter trees
. . . . . rise along this winding river bank

yet littered with wet leaves. Heaps
. . . . . of bright clouds drift downstream,

moving through a struggling noon
. . . . . sunshine as blue skies shift to white.


. . . . . 2

Alex appears to like that blanched
. . . . . wintry sunlight as it seeps between

these tree branches—the long lines
. . . . . of silhouette drawn on a steep incline

of lawn—smiles when he finally sees
. . . . . first flakes fill the folds of old weeds.


. . . . . 3

Every dim December evening seems
. . . . . to disappear into an empty night sky

as quickly as a slipknot, its string
. . . . . pulled tight, suddenly becomes undone,

or as silver coins might vanish, lost
. . . . . to sight by a magician’s sleight of hand.


. . . . . 4

For more than three weeks now,
. . . . . our son continues to refuse to speak

one word, his soft voice silenced
. . . . . by a will of stolen language. Though

Alex still listens to each question
. . . . . we ask, conversation has been absent.


. . . . . 5

We await the uncertainty of another
. . . . . cold front while the Weather Channel

warns of heavy snowfall. Tomorrow
. . . . . morning we will note the slow erasure

of everything, even those natural
. . . . . features marking grounds around us.


. . . . . 6

The storm will arrive by dawn,
. . . . . sometime just before Alex awakens

for his birthday only to notice
. . . . . once more the way this landscape

has transformed, those familiar
. . . . . details of his world again taken away.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXIII. Learning Sign Language: “Yes”

. . . . . 1

Driving home from the post office,
. . . . . we notice a stalk of black smoke growing,

rising from that blister of wreckage
. . . . . in the distance, its far-off image dimly lit

by late daylight, the dying sunshine
. . . . . hiding behind one fine line of cloud cover,

a dark couple of charred semis still
. . . . . smoldering in the lingering heat of summer.


. . . . . 2

When we ask Alex whether he sees
. . . . . this sign of damage hovering high above

the road ahead, my son, from whom
. . . . . we’ve heard no more than a word or two

for four months, slowly folds fingers
. . . . . into a fist (gesturing the way his mother

taught) as though to knock, hoping
. . . . . for opening of an unseen door before him.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXII. Following Alex

. . . . . 1

A lone motorboat cuts like a blade
. . . . . through blue lake water as a couple

of clouds attach like lint to the high
. . . . . sky and a few ring-billed gulls slide

by, drifting above in whatever wind
. . . . . remains. Alex steps past last night’s

collected debris, sticks of driftwood
. . . . . and gathered shells left after a storm.

Along the shoreline, its rough edge
. . . . . still fringed by frayed white threads

of breaking waves, we watch a dog
. . . . . make its way toward the low mounds

of dunes bordering a line of pines—
. . . . . old and twisting within their shadows.


. . . . . 2

Beside these trees, spring blossoms
. . . . . now flower, flashes of red or yellow

sneaking among the facade of green.
. . . . . Once more, my wife and I allow Alex

to lead. We follow as he steers us
. . . . . near the water line, where damp sand

shines, glistening under an angled
. . . . . slant of sunlight, and when we listen

to his laughter after each awkward
. . . . . toss of beach pebble splashes its ring

in a deeper distance he can reach,
. . . . . we excuse that lagging in language

and take his cue, simply satisfied
. . . . . by such a sound expressing delight.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXI. April Reverie

Pausing with Alex along a park path
. . . . . on our way out toward a fallow field

in northern Indiana on a late morning
. . . . . in early April, bits of light drizzling

through new growth of an old oak,
. . . . . slipping between its green lacework

of little leaves bristling in the wind
. . . . . above, a couple of crows still caught

in the draft moving overhead, a few
. . . . . cream-colored clouds slipping past,

drifting in deep blue sky, sliding by
. . . . . like pale sails seen on an unbroken

horizon, that straight line of an open
. . . . . ocean, calm and seemingly endless,

I remember watching one afternoon
. . . . . alongside a deck rail more than four

decades ago, the same age as my son
. . . . . today, crossing the Atlantic, cruising

waters west of the Azores and testing
. . . . . the taste of salt in the air, wondering

when wet sunset breezes and humid
. . . . . nights might at last give way to arid

days in a landlocked location far off
. . . . . somewhere, only thinking once again

of a curious course ahead, as always
. . . . . fascinated by what the future offers

but puzzled by its many possibilities,
. . . . . just as I am now, here in this spring

setting, observing as Alex measures
. . . . . every step, gauges the walk before us,

checks a stopwatch to time our pace,
. . . . . knowing so well the distance yet to go.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXX. Still in Spring

My son tries to climb a steep dune
. . . . . rising high behind the beach, stopping

just a second after each awkward
. . . . . step to contemplate the next. As I lag

back a bit, snap a picture—capture
. . . . . one moment in a frozen pose, hoping

to halt the motion of time—I notice
. . . . . how bright daylight briefly fades away

from the camera’s frame. Narrow
. . . . . clouds slowly cross just above a bluff,

floating past as easily as those two
. . . . . offshore scows we once watched slip

into a distant mist. Although I am
. . . . . sure the shifting north breeze will not

be seen in this quick photograph,
. . . . . and though nobody needs to know how

a cold lake current suddenly carried
. . . . . its bitter wind in early spring weather,

I will never forget the chilled gust,
. . . . . the hurried air still ruffling Alex’s hair.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXIX. January Light

. . . . . 1

Despite cold winds and snow-covered
. . . . . limbs outside, bright sunlight spills

through a bay window like clear liquid
. . . . . flowing so slowly into a crystal bowl

or white wine filling a glass decanter.
. . . . . My son runs one hand along whorls

stained in the veined wood of the sill,
. . . . . his long thin fingers lit with sunshine,

as if he’s feeling for heat beside rising
. . . . . flames blazing from the hearth’s fire.


. . . . . 2

Outdoors, the daylight now appears
. . . . . translucent, as seen through a jewel

or like a low amber glow pooling
. . . . . under the blush of an old gas lamp,

the frozen scenery merely a backdrop
. . . . . as Alex explores for more warmth,

moves his hand again through a slant
. . . . . of rays in that late afternoon glare,

cups light in a palm, perhaps hoping
. . . . . to save a sample for after nightfall.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXVIII. November Stillness

We do not speak, the quiet broken
. . . . . only by echoes of footsteps on a lone

trail, stones twisting between slim
. . . . . evergreens and beyond until unseen,

lost among a black patch, a mystery
. . . . . bit of thickets yet filling the distance

except for one line of light above,
. . . . . that cold flow of sunlight still rising

higher over everything, indicating
. . . . . the beginning of a new day—offering

a sharp contrast to this dark path
. . . . . we have entered—its bright opening

like a slit that finally might split
. . . . . the thin screen of silence between us.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXVII. At the Outdoor Concert

. . . . . 1

The brass band plays favorite
. . . . . holiday tunes, festive music

in late afternoon one weekend
. . . . . ahead of Independence Day.

A blanket spread wide, we lie
. . . . . on the lawn, watch darkening

blue sky above, horizon tinted
. . . . . with the hint of a new bruise.

A sudden file of black clouds
. . . . . crowds out the sun. Someone

runs quickly across a distant
. . . . . meadow now becoming lost

in shadow. Already, distinct
. . . . . arrows of treetops disappear.


. . . . . 2

As the squall line edges near,
. . . . . my son listens for the far off

rumble. As always, he knows
. . . . . to expect a change in plans—

again he learns of uncertainty
. . . . . that often accompanies him,

aware we cannot even count
. . . . . on this calm summer setting;

and so he wonders how close
. . . . . the storm front’s swift winds,

how soon before we’ll leave,
. . . . . hustling under heavy rainfall,

how much longer until a last
. . . . . note lingers with the thunder.