The Glorious Order of Things

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.