This month openly supports children with autism and their families. April also acknowledges the infinite spirit of the poem. So, I dug an old one out to honor both. As I write, a thunderstorm brews overhead. The sky is exceptionally dark save the beautiful bolts of lighting dancing in and out of the clouds. The rain will pound itself into the soil. Tomorrow, the sky will be clear blue with hints of ozone lingering. The earth will be soft, easy to toil while more buds and flowers appear.
Yes.
April is a poem...as are our children.
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3:00 AM
Sound trickles down
stirring the quiet
like the second hand
on a clock
in the room below his.
Light ticks-tocks
against darkness
towards her
reminding of the
passing now:
3:07a.m.
Giggles.
She pulls from the
seductive arms of
a selfish sleep to listen.
Unintelligible singing,
splatters in the rhythm
of a rainfall.
Laughter: A monsoon.
She dives from bed
into the curious waters
treading forgotten dreams
that wash her onto the staircase.
She climbs.
Intelligible singing
ebb and flows
from the door
of his sanctuary
she quietly opens.
He turns his smile to her.
The light of the t.v. behind him
floats throughout the room
casting blue into his eyes
that sparkle like an ocean
calmed by the loving moonlight.
It's 3 in the morning, she says.
He reaches out his hand.
Peels of laughter
welcome her to join him
before trickling through the ceiling
into the quiet room below.