would ask. Rose was bound to ask. Rose with her eyes large
but larger yet in their hue the rich and secret engulfing living
of pond water. I
have seen them, such ponds, with all the secrets of the villages
and the leaves deep within them coiled like serpents of memory
and deep, gravid as stones sent to sink the whispers. Rose
had eyes like that. Brown.
eyes that 1st time were brown, too, but vastly
a golden brown which glowed because they were deep set
so the glowing did certainly arise from within. Where other arises
light than from the vibrant swinging of her essence backward
forward side to side pivot, turn, and revolve hanging Foucault free
the traces of her like the trails of fireflies and meteors such
things, really, I always thought, yet how richly rewarding was
a glim of them.
eyes were blue.
the stone of aquamarine, like the finest etching, that was
eyes, and the shadows which sometimes entered them were like
gulls of Cape May looking for the young of incongruous and
was of the brown between gold and pond.
thing, too, she said that day, for Hamish was a brown-eyed
sort, and she gave her little flick of laughter like tossing out the corner
of a kerchief on a palm offering the curious glimpse restorative.
Violet tipped her head, tilted her chin, over her guitar, was as good as
told them about Hamish.
was a story about being.
eyes were brown, and Carrie's eyes were cornflower
yes, like the flower,
endowed like they with hue and trembling and with fresh light