Today, I came across a poem I wrote 10 years ago.  It’s about my son.  I tried to capture a glimpse of him in the backyard in the summer.  He had come through a particularly challenging season of anxiety and self injury, one of the more gruelling faces of autism.  But on this day he was absolutely content, engaged in a typical summertime activity and it delighted me.

Ten years later he is going through another hard season, not yet content on the far side of it. Frequency does not ease anything; for me it is as hard as any of the others.  So this poem comes out of the first poem, but from the emotion, I suppose of this current season.

Refuge

I wrote a poem like a mother’s sigh
as I observed my boy restored
after so many dark months, finally
at ease with himself, content to play.

Ten years later I want to write
that same poem, simply transposing
the contentment to the man, still my boy
again struggling, yet differently.

But my umbilical sight line is unsevered – we
gather all memories in an ever expanding womb,
not just sideways smiles and water play
but anguished cries and self injury.

So, this is the poem I’m writing now,
brick-layered in hope and heartache, prayers
set like stones, enduring, a wall of defense;
refuge for me and a Backyard Prince

© 2016 – Laurel Archer

Here too is the original poem

Boy Content: Age 9

Soaked to the skin
T-shirt sticky and stretched
He heads to the house
With too much energy for the task.

He’s forgotten backyard water-play,
But the sparkling drops cling
to arms and legs hoping
to make him stay.

The sun burnishing his hair
Crowns him Backyard Prince
As a smile slides sideways
Over his small kingdom.

It isn’t meant for anyone.
Neither are the declarations
Of joy that ripple out
While his fingers dance with the wind.

© 2006 – Laurel Archer