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.