The cafe window cold and thin

The cafe window, cold and thin,

showed an old woman, tucked within

a heavy wool, a cardy's fall.

The color caught me, held me thrall.

That deep, dark red, that faded hue,

the exact maroon, it felt so true

to Grandma's chair, the one she'd keep

beside the curtain, where the light would creep

and show the dust motes, slow and deep.

I smelled her house, the way it sleeps

in memory, the fabric worn.

That shade, it left me feeling torn.

She stirred her tea, I watched the steam.

Just a color. Just a dream.