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.