I am watching my autistic daughter stand at the ocean’s edge,
I imagine that, for her, words are sound clusters in primary colors.
But today, I forget about trying to extract language,
trying to hear her voice. The ocean fills the space
where the trying goes.
Such powerful forces—light, motion, moon-pull—
are no match for her stillness.
I stand far enough behind to resist reaching for her elbow.
She listens to the rhythms, absorbs the mist through her skin
as each wave reaches critical momentum, curling into itself.
All day we hallucinate dolphins in the ocean’s shimmy.
The horizon makes me feel like I’m a ghost in her future.
The sky is layered with shaded greys,
yet the entire scene glows,
my daughter’s hair so gold, all I can think is—
Lord, look how beautiful she is. Lord,
let others love how she lifts her face to the wind.