Not a Poem a Day, 22nd January 2018.
Of my autistic son.
If you were a pomegranate,
I would peel away your leathered skin,
and find inside; jewels, juice, ruby depths,
and little seeds. Pith, bitter to the tongue.
But seeds and seeds, wrapped in wonder,
so hard to win, but sweet to the victorious.
If you were a jungle cat,
I would sit and watch your soft-pawed tread,
and watch your eyes to see a world I wish to reach,
an unmapped place of seas and caves,
and darkling thoughts, and stealth, and love,
and love the deepest thing of all.
If you were a book,
I would lie and tuck you by my side,
and puzzle out your palimpsest of words,
and find you have no chapter ends, no notes,
but that your tale is long and uncompared for wit,
and winding deep, and soft, and true.
But there you are, a boy,
and winding deep, and sweet, and
wrapped in wonder, full of love,
unmapped and uncompared.