by Gene Scaramellino
In my most autistic times,
When verbal thought is drowning,
And silence seems the only choice,
I will motion to you from a raft.
Where am I drifting to?
The past swims up, dreams surface.
A springlit evening, I stood on the shore,
Holding a green balloon by its string.
A sea breeze – careless fingers –
And it slipped from my hand.
Waves swirled around my feet,
And racing, I chased the dancing string.
But it was floating upward
And I was only swimming out.
It’s just a smudge of emerald in the sky now.
I wait for waves to lilt me back.
So watch me from the sand.
Watch my hands and watch my eyes.