Translated from the Original Oakese

This is a poem written by my son last year. He was then in the 6th grade. He has Aspbergers, an autism spectrum disorder, and was recently diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. It is his ode to Fall, a time he doesn't much enjoy--not because of the season itself, but because it brings school. He is a brilliant child, with a high IQ, who nevertheless hates and fears school. He is exceedingly fearful and anxious about many things. He is also often unexpectedly and amazingly funny.

We... we...
We are leaves..
Please, please,please,
We are leaves.
Sitting in a tree, we were green.
But now that we have come here now,
This we will not allow.

To fall, to die,
To crunch, to cry,
What has gone awry?

We, we, we are leaves,
Hoping for the best,
waiting for a test,
Expecting the worst,
What will become of us now?

Now,
We will wait,
Till next spring,
If you can imagine such a thing.

We are glad we are not turkeys.