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.