Feel my gaze
as a wild thing's nearby attention—
when you meet it, be gentle.
My burrow is close,
to hide me from sudden strangers.
See my face as stone:
harsh, scored by painful weather
three seasons out of four—
stretched by relentless ice
into cracks where understanding
runs warm in summer—
until inevitable winter freezes my speech.
Remember to walk kindly
in my abandoned hills—
be still and hold out your hand.
I may come near enough to touch.
An autist diagnosed later in life, with a love of reading and writing, and some fairly quirky attitudes.
Latest posts by stinkyzen (see all)
- Poetry: Echelons of Autism - November 26, 2019
- Poetry: Beholden - November 8, 2019
- Elements of Executive Function: Road Trip Without a Map - October 18, 2019