When Bradford came, our friend’s autistic boy,
We put him in our guest room with his mom.
He doesn’t talk. He watches. That’s his joy.
Sometimes he gets upset; most times he’s calm.
The second day he wandered off alone
Up narrow stairs to where I keep my den.
We heard him there—a floorboard creak, a moan.
His mother said he’s fine; we talked again.
That night I saw what Bradford did: my books
Had all been taken down from shelves and piled
In patterns, somehow based upon their looks.
I stood awhile deciphering, then smiled
At perfect order—color, shape, and size—
For he made things, like God, through gloried eyes.