AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXII. Following Alex

. . . . . 1

A lone motorboat cuts like a blade
. . . . . through blue lake water as a couple

of clouds attach like lint to the high
. . . . . sky and a few ring-billed gulls slide

by, drifting above in whatever wind
. . . . . remains. Alex steps past last night’s

collected debris, sticks of driftwood
. . . . . and gathered shells left after a storm.

Along the shoreline, its rough edge
. . . . . still fringed by frayed white threads

of breaking waves, we watch a dog
. . . . . make its way toward the low mounds

of dunes bordering a line of pines—
. . . . . old and twisting within their shadows.


. . . . . 2

Beside these trees, spring blossoms
. . . . . now flower, flashes of red or yellow

sneaking among the facade of green.
. . . . . Once more, my wife and I allow Alex

to lead. We follow as he steers us
. . . . . near the water line, where damp sand

shines, glistening under an angled
. . . . . slant of sunlight, and when we listen

to his laughter after each awkward
. . . . . toss of beach pebble splashes its ring

in a deeper distance he can reach,
. . . . . we excuse that lagging in language

and take his cue, simply satisfied
. . . . . by such a sound expressing delight.