A bucket of freshly picked wildflowers
rest at the mud room door
the hum of washing machine
eases almost into a state of permanence
he wet himself again
he can't change himself
his bed is on the first floor
because fear lurks on the second
demons patrol every staircase
he's created his own Alcatraz
to keep himself safe
we do a puzzle
we read the sports section of the daily local
"I like this guy"
"go birds"
the only words i hear this day
the washer is still running
we look out the window
i see a fall day so beautiful
nature could not interact with itself
so harmoniously
he sees something else
something tragic and discordant
something evil that is always at his side
this ancient child
this hurt hermit
whose suffering remains unsung
saves me from despair
every time time i bask in the purity
that is his smile
and when the wildflowers are gone
and the washing machine stops running
a new meaning will be brought to
innocence lost