Rose would ask. Rose was bound to ask. Rose with her eyes large but larger yet in their hue the rich and secret engulfing living brown 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.

Esme(e)'s eyes that 1st time were brown, too, but vastly
different, a golden brown which glowed because they were deep set
and so the glowing did certainly arise from within. Where other arises
that light than from the vibrant swinging of her essence backward
and forward side to side pivot, turn, and revolve hanging Foucault free
weaving the traces of her like the trails of fireflies and meteors such
little things, really, I always thought, yet how richly rewarding was
but a glim of them.
Any night. Irregardless.
Any night.

Elaine's eyes were blue.
Like the stone of aquamarine, like the finest etching, that was her eyes, and the shadows which sometimes entered them were like the gulls of Cape May looking for the young of incongruous and persistent horseshoe crabs.

Cleo was of the brown between gold and pond.
Lucky 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.
Cleo, Violet tipped her head, tilted her chin, over her guitar, was as good as salts.
Cleo told them about Hamish.
It was a story about being.

Violet's eyes were brown, and Carrie's eyes were cornflower
blue, yes, like the flower,
lushly endowed like they with hue and trembling and with fresh light
withal.