There is a sweet stirring
Like a hum.
It dives down and spirals up
And washes over
Licking at corners, tracing curves.
Moving, settling then moving again
A glance, a tug, a ricochet.
Her eyes close as she follows it with her mind.
Focusing on it as it blends softer and then fractures to pinpoints raw and bursting
Like fireworks ever expanding out and out.
Each overlay vibrant, forced and then quickly fading.
There is a whir now.
Like the wind through leaves or crashing waves.
Pulsing like a waterfall gushing from a heavy rain.
Pushing out, cascading.
Blindly boldly racing down until it crashes and spirals upward, spilling everywhere
There is a weight to all this movement and her watching over it.
Not being able to shut it off but for a few moments, when it yields to a very loud silence.
Holding that doesn’t last.
Picking up either central or from an edge it reboots and takes its way with her.
Grief she calls it. Black out. Filling hollows and voids before unknown.
Resting never. Just moving.
Was it ever not there?
A crack, like cymbals hitting.
Racing like a roller coaster dropping into its high speed fall.
The plane that pulls in its wheels surges aloft.
Walls collapse as a fire consumes their support.
In the last few years Laura moved to Concord, California, turned 65 and learned she was autistic. Although she is mildly autistic, she has the very active mind with which everyone on the spectrum lives. Picture a poem nearly writing itself and processing a lot of complex content efficiently. Living in the neurotypical world is like an anthropology assignment for her.