On the clear storm season nights
crimson pulses through dusty glass panes
and a part of me breathes to your beat.
On the mild season nights, the firework nights,
when the maple has filled the gaps,
I can only find you from the point
where the granite is still sun-warmed.
Looking back,
you cast the leaves in warm glow.
Red Right Returning
red right
red light
I am returning.