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.

The sky is layers of grey and darker grey,
yet the entire scene glows, her hair gold
not golden, her green shirt neon.

Such powerful forces—light, motion, moon-pull—
are no match for her stillness.

I stand far enough behind to not reach for her elbow.

She listens to the rhythms, absorbs the mist through her skin as another wave reaches critical momentum, curls 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.

All I can think is—Lord, look how beautiful she is. Lord,
let others love how she lifts her face to the wind.