Those eyes were the hue of every tree in the forest from the early light to the sunset, made all the richer by the golden light.
In those brown eyes was the warmth of an everlasting hearth, as if they were the wood that could burn with golden flame yet be forever perfectly entire.
His brown eyes were hues of comforting childhood memories, as sweet as chocolate and as solid as the oak.
My Grandpa, the Jew, with his soulful laugh and the sort of brown eyes that bring hearth-sipped hot cocoa to the memory.
Those brown eyes are a million hues, so I wonder what the word "brown" even means. They are the forest and the autumnal leaves, the soil in summer and after the rains. How could we ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word, when the colours invite us to marvel in their simplicity.
In those earthy hues was his soul, not in they way of those cheesy romance novels, so obsessed with lust, but with the kind of beauty that expands a moment into a personal eternity, a heaven you wish to be a part of.
His eyes were the shade of acorns, just bright enough to shine in the shadows. I often kept my gaze to the soil or else tilted upward to the sky, but when I was brave enough to meet them a shiver of golden light would race down my spine, every time, every time.
His eyes reminded me of the old barn door, flecks of deep brown married with lighter hues, so much strength remaining despite the years of weathering, so much life.
His eyes were the colour of earth kissed by spring rains, the hue that promises to stir life from dormant seeds, the nascent plants guided upward by the light before blossoming into the vibrant colours of a new season.
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