The Color Of My Dress

Looking out the window upstairs in my room
            the color of the bush down the road caught my eyes:
            The light flesh hue of the weedy branch
            the very same color of my dress long ago.

When I was ten, my mother made me a dress.
            Out of silk, she dyed the very same color for
            the August Full Moon Harvest Day.  I remember
            the sleepless night waiting for the dawn.

I wore it once, and never again.  The war like a wind
            came and stole everything; everything for a mound of ash.
            The dress in the light flesh hue of the weedy branch
            never found me alive since then.