Estée KlarThe Joy of Autism

Hovering like barometric weight,
each morning before I wake
an effort looms.

It was your idea,
your invitation
upon the podium I stood.
You wanted words of hope, I thought -
Of the little engine that could.

Lauded once and quoted some
for better and for worse.
There I learned but also burned
A scorch within the wood.

Shaded once by gilded trees
like cold metal – forlorn.
The artifact, the word, the thought
A dropped seedling in the dirt.

Cut it down, say no more,
words of love be gone!
Do not remind us, this plight we lead,
or of dreams – you cling on.

Be gone you feckless writer!
Just who do you think you are?
If we smite you and apprise you,
You can go — afar.

Of books, of words of thoughts and form,
some mold and shape and bend.
With exaltations and deflations,
An artist’s life is spent.

— by (me)

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