Out My Window as a Boy

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Across the mantle of night sky,
a meteor burned in an earthward arc,
a sparkling ball of gold dust
extending out into a plume of rosy flame—
a blaze carrying through the night,
marking an unforgettable sign,
its imprint blotting out a whole,
far-flung mosaic of sweet stars.
In silence, with my fingertips
pressed against the windowpane,
for a moment, there was no time, no distance.
My room filled with an amber glow,
all around me, so clear and pure
you could bathe in it.
Everywhere I turned I faced the light.
The meteor passed over the horizon,
and the stars returned to me—
in the darkness, in my room, a boy.

Brent Short

Brent Short lives outside Tampa and works at Saint Leo University as the Director of Library Services.  He’s been a contributor to Sojourners, Radix, Mars Hill Review and Inklings. His poetry has appeared in Eads Bridge Literary Review, Windhover, Tar River Poetry and Sandhill Review, and still holds up “The Waste Land” and “Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot as the towering achievements in modern poetry that the rest of us can only aspire to.

 

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