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.
Such a beautiful image, that "slit" of "cold" sun "that finally might split / the thin screen of silence between us."
ReplyDeleteSuch a strong sense here of wanting to break through that "mystery/bit of thickets", to travel a not so "dark path" into "a new day", the invocation of hope that silence give way to a "bright opening" so important.