In the still of the night
when the moon rages

its harvest orange hues
to the ground I write

sleepily by a red light.
I labor out of the love

of words grazing the
tips of your ears

with a beacon of light’s
gilded colors.

I write on spindrift
pages of white harboring

just the right tone,
just the right syllables

to connect your soul
inexplicably to mine.