August, Meteors

I'd meant to wake,

stand beneath broadcasts

of flaring dust. But a dream

held me in a room we have known, sunlight

found its way through a window; life

shone bright in your eyes. 

Son, you were the same— 

that broad flash of white 

above your chin,

the familiar coarseness 

of your close-cropped hair.

I woke to magpies squabbling,

the press of your palm

on my shoulder, vanishing—

something deep

within me 

winged.

Rising.