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.