AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . . XXXVII. Fall Walk at Forest Park
. . . . . 1
The blade of his body leaning a bit
. . . . . into this stiff breeze, Alex leads
me toward the crab orchard grove
. . . . . where he disappears under cover
of boughs, seems swallowed by late
. . . . . day stains of shade spreading out
from beneath each tree. Somewhere
. . . . . above, a flock of white-crowned
sparrows sounds loudly, suddenly
. . . . . fluttering among a rustle of leaves
stirred anew in every rushing gust.
. . . . . Across that still-damp ground all
around us remain the thin scribbles
. . . . . of smaller branches left last night
by a rainstorm, a few already bare,
. . . . . their outlines configured in twists.
. . . . . 2
They lie as if arthritic on an uncut
. . . . . lawn among twitches of tall grass,
long and wet yet shifting with each
. . . . . fresh drift of air current. The cold
front slips onshore from the lake.
. . . . . My son runs through dark woods
to huddle under those low longer
. . . . . limbs of a willow. Hidden below
their canopy, he again feels safe
. . . . . from swift northern winds, waits
for me to follow and to find him.
. . . . . Though Alex knows these leaves
can’t last much longer, he needs
. . . . . such a brief relief before winter,
hopes for one more chance to hold
. . . . . on to what he has learned to love.
. . . . . XXXVII. Fall Walk at Forest Park
. . . . . 1
The blade of his body leaning a bit
. . . . . into this stiff breeze, Alex leads
me toward the crab orchard grove
. . . . . where he disappears under cover
of boughs, seems swallowed by late
. . . . . day stains of shade spreading out
from beneath each tree. Somewhere
. . . . . above, a flock of white-crowned
sparrows sounds loudly, suddenly
. . . . . fluttering among a rustle of leaves
stirred anew in every rushing gust.
. . . . . Across that still-damp ground all
around us remain the thin scribbles
. . . . . of smaller branches left last night
by a rainstorm, a few already bare,
. . . . . their outlines configured in twists.
. . . . . 2
They lie as if arthritic on an uncut
. . . . . lawn among twitches of tall grass,
long and wet yet shifting with each
. . . . . fresh drift of air current. The cold
front slips onshore from the lake.
. . . . . My son runs through dark woods
to huddle under those low longer
. . . . . limbs of a willow. Hidden below
their canopy, he again feels safe
. . . . . from swift northern winds, waits
for me to follow and to find him.
. . . . . Though Alex knows these leaves
can’t last much longer, he needs
. . . . . such a brief relief before winter,
hopes for one more chance to hold
. . . . . on to what he has learned to love.
This poem is so moving. And the imagery - "the blade of his body", "... swallowed by late / day stains of shade spreading out", "They lie as if arthritic... twitches of tall grass" - is marvelous. We know the coming of winter is inevitable - your imagery of stiff breezes and swift northern winds a clue - and that dying into winter and the loss it represents is rendered all the more poignant with your image of Alex trying for "one more chance to hold / on to what he has learned to love". Wonderful!
ReplyDeleteThis is beautifully written, Ed. I agree with all that Maureen stated in her comments. Your imagery, as always, paints a perfect picture and portrait of Alex (Forgive me, but you inspire me to be alliterative). For anyone who has ever seen Alex, "blade" is the perfect word choice to describe his thin, angular frame. I think your liberal use of sibilance throughout the poem suggests the soft soughing or sighing of the wind through the leaves and lends a tone of sadness to the poem that we often feel as nature seems to die just before the onset of winter. I love it!
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