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.