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.
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One Response
This is very well said. Thanks for sharing.